We Become Ourselves, the Archetypes
by Toraptor
Summary: Fate was a tricky fellow. It was fond of patterns, stubborn in the face of change, and more than willing to split the rules when push came to shove. And push hadn't just shoved—it howled with all the fury of an avalanche. The burden landed itself on Uchiha Madara's shoulders, and didn't appear to be lifting anytime soon.
1. The Weight On His Shoulders

**Chapter One**

**The Weight On His Shoulders**

If there was one thing Uchiha Madara was always guaranteed to win, it was a staring contest.

Blinking wasn't a hassle for most of humanity. People who weren't shinobi often lost track of the amount of times they blinked. Shinobi were not most people. To them, the sliver of time between blinks could decide life and death. It was the moment waited for in all battles, the span of a blink, followed by the sing of a blade and the spray of blood.

Dry eye was something of a secret killer in the world of shinobi. One couldn't exactly pause a battle to whip out a bottle of eye drops and delicately dampen their eyes, while kunai sliced by and jutsu turned the air thick with chakra.

The Uchiha Clan was known for many things: being a mercenary clan, the ability to sniff out money better than any mob boss, photographic memories, and holding grudges for several generations. A lesser known trait of the Uchiha was that they never got dry eye.

Those who knew theorized the children trained their eyes with staring contests. Others said they had a special sort of formula they used to keep their eyes dampened for days on end. More still claimed they were just stubborn, iron-willed bastards who refused to blink out of sheer spite.

None of those were strictly true. While they _were_ iron-willed, spiteful bastards, and very stubborn, there was no secret formula. There were staring contests, but only the kind children partook in when they were especially bored.

They had a third eyelid. While most humans did have a third eyelid, it was underdeveloped and long abandoned in the course of evolution. Like the Inuzuka and Hatake and Yashagoro Clans, the Uchiha were tied to a specific clan animal that people frequently forgot to take into account.

The Inuzuka and Hatake had canines. The Yashagoro had their snakes. The Uchiha Clan were cats.

One needed look no farther than the tell-tale hands-off-eyes-on way of showing affection to see the cat-like personality traits. More importantly, their third eyelids were fully developed. It was functional, invisible, and worked to keep their eyes moist when others went dry.

As such, Uchiha Madara was dominating Senju Hashirama in the staring contest of the century.

In another life, this would have been the moment Hashirama rooted out the true identity of his friend/sparring partner/secret crush. A staring contest might have seemed like an innocuous request between other children, but Hashirama was not an ordinary child, even by shinobi standards, and Madara was nothing if not one to rise to the challenge. All it took was squinted eyes and a smug grin, and he'd broken under the simple desire to see Hashirama's attitude dragged through the dirt.

There was one clan that never blinked. Hashirama didn't want his friend to be an Uchiha, but one could never be too cautious. Even if Madara was an Uchiha, he rationalized, there was no need to cause a confrontation. They'd had something of a silent agreement—neither asked for a last name. That was good as letting slide the possibility of them being enemies.

Hashirama was good at staring contests. His father, Butsuma, would have blown a few arteries to know his son had used the legendary mokuton to win _staring contests_, but well—one had to take risks, as a three year old, to be supreme ruler of the sand pit. He'd never lost a match yet. If he lost to Madara, there was something else going on—something clan related. Something Uchiha.

As it happened, a particularly unorthodox wind was blowing through on that day.

Madara, a surly, raven-haired boy, stared deep into Hashirama's hazel eyes. He'd experienced something like indigestion, or a parasite, fluttering in his stomach around Hashirama in the past. It was there now, an anxious energy that made him want to fidget, but he would _not lose_, so he remained steadfast.

The day was clear as crystal, not a cloud in the sky, warm and mild—idyllic. Wind picked up around them, whipping up dirt and leaves. A browning leaf fluttered about the river, dropping in a lazy circle.

Madara was thirteen years old. He was the son of Uchiha Tajima. He had one little brother that he loved more than anything else in the world.

The leaf dropped onto the river, sending out little ripples.

When it struck, it was hot and merciless as lightning. Heat _scorched_ Madara's eyes. Images flooded his head, wrapped around his mind, like the tsukuyomi of every Uchiha to ever achieve the mangekyou sharingan playing over and over again. Lifetimes sped before his eyes, regrets and shame and fury that weren't his own, bubbling up in his own chest. He wanted to laugh, and then he wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.

Fate was not very happy with Madara. In about a century, he would defy all expectations, revive himself from the dead, attempt to circumvent reality, and build his own fate. There was a reason fate was out of the hands of mortals, and mostly it was for that reason, but it was also because fate was _complicated_. How does one calculate the lifetime of every living creature to ever exist, and how their lifelines would coexist with others? That was _fate's _job, and it had been doing it for _far_ too long to be meddled with by some upstart who had barely clocked in one hundred years.

So, fate had dropped it. It had taken Madara's fate in particular—only Madara's fate—and dropped it on him. If _he_ wanted to deal with his problems, then he could deal with it. Fate wasn't going to put up with avoiding his grasping, grubby fingers.

If fate dropped the memories a little harsher than necessary, well—he _had_ been a rather large nuisance.

Madara blinked.

Then he collapsed sideways, shrieking.

As it turned out, Hashirama would still learn his friend's identity on that day. However, Madara was cursed with much more than an identity.

* * *

Hashirama watched his friend leave that day with a heavy heart. He almost dragged Madara home with him. The temptation had lingered there, burned under his skin, in a quiet sort of righteous fury. He didn't like to be angry, but there was little else he could muster up.

At fourteen, Hashirama had seen his fair share of nasty genjutsu. He'd seen the side affects of them in others, and experienced them himself. There was only one clan better than the Yamanaka at weaving traumatizing genjutsu, and that was the Uchiha.

He had thought the Uchiha safe from such monstrosities, until he'd molded the smallest bit of healing chakra to inspect Madara's mind and realized he was wrong. He was absolutely wrong.

It was as though someone took a sodding iron to every chakra point in his brain. Madara was hardly functional, let alone steady enough for battle, but he'd stumbled off in a teary daze. He'd lost their staring contest and all but fled afterwards, dabbing away tears that looked suspiciously tainted with blood.

There was no mistaking the flash of crimson. He'd only glimpsed one tomoe, though it was hard to tell, what with Madara's wild fringe of hair and the fact it was spinning so fast it blurred into a line of black. Hashirama wasn't an expert on the sharingan, by a long shot, but he assumed that was a bad thing.

He returned to the Senju Compound, still upset.

Everyone immediately noticed, as he never really took the energy to hide the fact he was in the mood, but didn't give any inquiries. One of the many perks of openness with emotion was that people got used to seeing emotion. It did come with an increase of right-hooks from Butsuma, but it was a small price to pay, to be visibly upset in the midst of his clan and have no one pester him with questions. If _Toka_ moped through the clan, she'd have every person and their mother's brother prying for answers.

Of course, for every rule, there was an exception. Tobirama had coined that saying. Tobirama was also the exception.

He took one look at Hashirama's face, burgundy eyes going narrow, and slipped his kunai away. The sun was still high, reflecting off his white hair, turning him ghostly. "What happened?"

"Nothing," said Hashirama, fully aware he'd never managed to lie to his brother before, and wasn't about to succeed now, either.

Sure enough, Tobirama gathered himself up like an aggravated cat. The resulting storm was predictable. It wasn't anything Hashirama wasn't used to, nor was it a normal tantrum. Along with being an exceptional sensor and water-style ninjutsu user, even at his age, Tobirama was exceedingly good at passive aggressive manipulation. In the hands of Tobirama, passive aggressiveness was a weaponized tool, a scalpel used to carve out his targets, and he was very determined.

Hashirama had, after all, been hiding something for a few weeks now. It was rare that he kept a secret from his brothers, and even rarer than he _kept_ it secret. He was open, to a fault, and didn't make a sport out of keeping things from his brothers. So, whenever Hashirama had a real secret, it was the others' sole focus to puzzle it out.

This time, he really couldn't let them know. If they knew about Madara, they would want to know his clan. When they put two and two together, and came out with _Uchiha_—because Tobirama would, he was smart like that—it would be all over. Next time Hashirama met Madara, it would be on the field of combat, and he wasn't ready for that scenario. Not yet. (Not ever, preferably, but one was never gifted with a preferred outcome in life.) So, he clammed up and remained as secretive and evasive as possible.

Which actually meant he set up camp in the outhouse for most of the evening.

His plan was to stay there until his brothers gave up, but it was an unrealistic approach. His brothers never gave up. Eventually, he was forced to leave when old Rikuo, one of the elders, needed to use the outhouse.

That left him at the mercy of Tobirama, Itama, and Kawarama.

"This would be much less painful if you just gave up and told us," said Kawarama, who was perched on the edge of a tree stump, in outskirts of the compound. His brown hair was damp from a recent washing.

Hashirama felt oddly disconcerted, leaning against a wall and telling himself it was leisure, not because his brothers had pushed into his personal space.

"There's really nothing to say!"

"You've been doing a lot of solo training on your own," said Tobirama, keeping his voice down so as to not alert anyone to their location.

A layered wall made of tall pikes surrounded the compound, of Hashirama's own making for extra defense. They had taken to standing between two of the walls, placed strategically so they were hidden from the watchers. It would have been an enormous liability in a battle near the compound, but no clan had dared venture deep enough into Senju clan grounds to even lay eyes on the compound, let alone make use of the choke point Hashirama set up so he could speak with his brothers in private.

He'd wanted to build a maze around the entire compound that would have made it impossible for enemy forces to break through, but his father had quickly shot down the idea. At some point in the future, he promised himself, he would have a maze—a village, too, if things went his way.

Things, as evidenced by the three sets of eyes boring holes into his eyes, never went his way.

"Sometimes I need some time, you know!" said Hashirama guilelessly, as though he wasn't the most sociable human being to ever live. He would probably wither and die like his sunflowers if he was denied contact with other humans.

"Try again," said Kawarama.

Itama blinked, resembling a sparrow where he was sitting on the other side of Kawarama's stump. He was all bones and big, dark eyes peering out from two-toned brown and silver hair. He had a bad habit of being unerringly correct. "Are you meeting someone?"

"_No_," said Hashirama.

His voice chose that inopportune moment to shoot up several octaves.

"You're _meeting someone_?" said Kawarama, pitching forward so suddenly he toppled off the stump. He lunged the rest of the way to Hashirama, shaking his shoulders. "Who!?"

"Why didn't you tell us?" said Itama.

"Are they dangerous?" said Tobirama.

"Do you _like_ them?" said Kawarama, to the disgust and bewilderment of his brothers. Tobirama's lip curled. Itama frowned, looking confused. Hashirama was doing his best not to blush. "What? It's a legitimate question."

"I don't—he's not—"

"It's a _he_!" Kawarama crowed, like an excited midwife the moment the baby was revealed.

Hashirama slumped over, letting the strength drain from his legs. They crowded around him, utterly merciless.

"Is he cool?"

"Is he a shinobi?"

"He could be a civilian," Kawarama argued.

Tobirama gave a humph, crossing his arms. "Unlikely. Far out enough that anija could meet him? Definitely an undercover shinobi."

"We don't know if he's undercover, though," said Kawarama.

"Why are you so adamant on this?"

"I have never met someone who isn't a Senju, who isn't trying to kill me," Kawarama hissed vehemently.

"He still could be out to kill us."

Hashirama dropped his head in his arms. "He doesn't even know who you are."

There was no dissuading them once they were interested. They were dogs with their bones and none of them were contracted to dogs—Hashirama made a mental note to never, ever let them be contracted to dogs.

He spent the rest of the day bargaining with them, as though he'd leapt through the first two stages of grief. Evening was aging the sky into an bruised purple, scattered clouds from the last rainstorm to sweep through central Fire Country flaring bright pink. Hashirama tried to enjoy it, with three brothers, all of whom were increasingly reminding him of ducklings. They backed off after he voiced the comparison, though not by much, and he knew Tobirama would keep an sensor's eye on him through chakra.

Sneaking out to visit Madara at their usual spot was looking unlikely, as the days wore on, and his brothers gained a whole new level of stubborn. They were up before Hashirama. They opted to train with him, which earned a bewildered, but vaguely approving, nod from Butsuma. It was all Hashirama could do to use the outhouse without a sibling guard. He had to convince them not to tell Butsuma about his friend, which ended up being his undoing.

It was a warm day, very much like the one where everything changed—though no one was aware of that, yet. Idyllic, again. Hashirama had turned his face into the sun, smelling the arrival of autumn in the wind, and couldn't help a smile. He hadn't had a moment of peace in over seventy-two hours.

That was when his brothers arrived.

Which was to say, that was when they pulled The Card.

"I'll tell Father."

Hashirama felt like a criminal convicted of dealing illegal arms to an enemy clan. He had never been so personally attacked in his life. The mountain he stood before was tall and unmoving and only growing taller, his way out ever slipping from his grasp—and for once, he wasn't making mountains out of molehills. No one would think to compare Tobirama to a mole.

"You wouldn't," he said, regardless of that knowledge.

"I would," said Tobirama. "It's the wise thing to do. You've been coerced—"

"I wasn't _coerced_—"

"—into regular meetings with an unknown—"

"—he's—I know who he is—"

"—of equally unknown power—"

"Actually, I can take him in a fight—"

"—_Possibly giving away valuable fighting techniques to the enemy_," Tobirama ranted, gaining true pitch, face turning red. "Refusing to tell us _anything_—"

"You're being a bully," said Hashirama bluntly, crossing his arms.

Tobirama broke off with a splutter. His mouth hung open, his arms dropping to his sides. There were many things in the world Tobirama had tolerance for, up to and including murder and sudoku, but that didn't extend to bullying. In fact, ever since they learned another Senju youth was bullying Kawarama for taking a liking to stitching, he had formed a bitter and intense disapproval towards them.

"I am _not_."

He looked genuinely hurt. Hashirama refused to feel guilty—he was well within his rights to be annoyed. They had hounded him for _days_. It was rude. He was _not_ guilty.

Standing back a few yards and having kept to themselves the entire time, Itama and Kawarama had both forgotten the _keeping watch_ part of their job and were staring, gapemouthed. They were both wide-eyed, as though they couldn't believe Hashirama dared to say that, and—_he was feeling guilty_.

Ignoring the splintering feeling of shame in his chest, Hashirama did his best not to show it.

"I just—" Tobirama faltered again. He set his jaw. "I want to make sure you won't get hurt. We've… lost a lot of people already."

Somewhere in the world, a field of wildflowers shriveled and died. Hashirama's resolve died with them.

He dropped onto a log and rested his elbows against his knees, sighing deeply. "I won't lie—" they perked up, eyes shining with disbelief, "—it's a dicey situation."

"How so?" said Tobirama, a hair away from eager, undoubtedly wanting to be as helpful as possible after the constant badgering of the past few days. He took a seat on Hashirama's left. A few moments later, Kawarama and Itama joined them on Hashirama's right. "Maybe we can—well, if we knew more, we could work something out."

"People have noticed your disappearances," Itama noted softly. "If it went on much longer, bigger people than us would be asking questions."

He was talking about Butsuma and the Elders. In truth, it was always inevitable that Hashirama was discovered. There was no way to hide something as big as clandestine meetings from a shinobi clan—especially one, even if it was pride speaking, as great as the Senju. However, if his brothers were there to help him—

"By dicey, I mean I think I have an… _idea_ of his clan," said Hashirama, before quickly adding, "But I'm keeping it secret. Clan names are important."

"He's not an Uchiha is he?" said Tobirama, utterly exhausted, as though he was ninety rather than his mere nine years.

"I don't know for certain," said Hashirama, marking the first time he ever successfully lied to his brothers. The certainty of his own voice was a shock, even to himself. "But he's strong. He's—he's _good_, though."

Kawarama leaned around Itama, open-faced and inquisitive. "How so?"

Faced with the question, Hashirama hesitated.

There was no easy way to describe Madara. He was tetchy and stubborn. He had a competitive streak wider than Nakano River. Pride was backed up by genuine talent. Some of the most nonsensical bothers could strip away his calm—once, Hashirama tried a scented oil in his hair that had Madara ruffled up like an angry bird for _hours_. He loved water, but couldn't swim. That was how Hashirama learned Madara's clan had spent the last few years away, in the west. Water was scarce there and the winters were harsh, but Madara had such a glow of delight on his face as he regaled Hashirama with tales about the west, that he knew Madara must have loved it.

He had so many sides, hard and brilliant as a diamond, and Hashirama couldn't begin to figure out how to put that into words his brothers would understand. They couldn't understand, being all of nine at the oldest, having never met someone outside the Senju Clan for longer than brief small chat, or a battle for their lives.

As the quiet stretched into somber dreariness, Hashirama wondered, miserably, if he was the one who didn't understand.

"What if we…" Itama started, but trailed off, as even his voice seemed loud in the silence. At their curious gazes, he gathered his courage. "What if we met him?"

Tobirama frowned. Hashirama mirrored him, though probably for a different reason. He would have to pass that by Madara first and he was infamously untrusting. He _still_ wouldn't let Hashirama stand behind him, even after being promised—multiple times—that Hashirama would _not_ push him in the river.

"Would he agree to such a thing?"

"I don't know," said Hashirama. "I would have to talk about it with him—_alone_," he added, when he saw Tobirama's expression. It was shrewd. "He's a good sensor, so I wouldn't try it."

"Do you have scheduled meetings?" Tobirama asked clinically, as though diagnosing symptoms, instead of helping Hashirama with friend problems.

Hashirama didn't. He just showed up and hoped that Madara was there. With his lack of appearances the past few days, and the way they parted during their last meeting, he didn't have high hopes. He wasn't going to say that out loud, though.

"I might be able to talk to him tomorrow," he said. "But you guys won't be able to meet him."

Kawarama gave a nod. "That's fine. Itama and I are with the scouting regime tomorrow anyway."

Hearing that sent thrills of fear through Hashirama's gut.

"Maybe I should—"

"Don't even think about it," said Kawarama. "Besides—we'll have Maki-san and Tsuki-san with us. They're strong."

They were subpar at best. Hashirama chose to keep that to himself, too. He gave a strained smile that he hoped didn't show the funeral arrangements flashing violently before his eyes.

"So you arrange a meeting with your friend tomorrow," said Tobirama. All he needed was a clipboard, Hashirama noted sourly. "Once we've talked to him, maybe it'll clear things up."

Or start a battle royale, Hashirama's inner pessimist chipped in unhelpfully. He nodded with another faked smile.

He didn't get much sleep that night.

The next morning, he waved Kawarama and Itama off. He told himself it wouldn't be the last time, as he lingered in the training areas long enough to leave a presence. As soon as he deemed safe, he ducked out of the training area, stowing away the large sword he was sparring with in one of the weapons racks. He changed into another yukata—a less sweaty, dirt-smeared one—and darted into the forest. It felt wrong to leave the compound, knowing his brothers were out on their first patrol.

His feeling of wrongness plagued him, even after he'd reached Nakano River. Water bubbled cheerfully over smooth gray rocks, glittering under the midday sun. He sat on the shore, preparing himself for a wait. There was no guarantee Madara would show up at all. In hindsight, they should have come up with a schedule for it. Mid-afternoon scheduled as the latest time they appeared was far more convenient than "wait and hope for the best," as they'd done thus far.

Everything was obscenely peaceful. The breeze was perfect. The day wasn't too hot. The beginnings of autumn was turning the tips of the leaves orange and red. It was beautiful and Hashirama had a hive of ants crawling around in his gut, making it impossible to enjoy.

He startled out of a daydream where he swept in—heroically, of course—and saved Madara and his brothers, and maybe Madara's brother, too, from enemy shinobi. Madara would thank him profusely. The Uchiha Clan would stop killing the Senju, and vice versa. It was a nice dream.

A dark shape was floating down Nakano River. He watched it out of the corner of his eyes, bobbing along like driftwood, and didn't think about what else it reminded him of.

Until it got closer, and he was forced to acknowledge it: a body, ashen with death, turned on its face. He saw the Hagaromo Clan symbol on the back of a bloody yukata and felt his gut clench.

The Hagaromo were hostile, and that body was fresh.

He flew back into the woods, leaving the river and body, and prayed he wasn't too late.

* * *

Itama had imagined his death many times. Somehow, he always pictured it happening from his own incompetency. He would be too slow, or fumble an attack, or just plainly miss something obvious. He would go down as Hashirama's little brother, another number lost to the war.

He was still another number, but it wasn't his own incompetency. There wasn't a single thing he could have done to avoid the fight, or win it, and it was worse. It was so much worse, surrounded by enemies armed to the teeth, hale and strong, in their prime, while Itama was small. He was frail, had lost his weapons. All he had was Kawarama, who trembled against the boulder at his side.

The Uchiha and Hagaromo loomed above him. Sharingan eyes glowed in the dark, where the canopy was so thick it blocked out most of the sun. They seemed larger than the trees, their eyes colder than the winter plagues that stole his mother's life. Something cruel and inhuman was twisted around in them. They didn't even seem real.

One of the Uchiha reached for a blade.

He might have cried, had he not be too terrified. All the tears were dried up and evaporated in the killing intent that turned the air to poison. He couldn't even _breathe_—

"What are you doing?"

The question was a tired one. It shattered the oppressive chakra in the air and Itama gasped for breath, flinging an arm in front of Kawarama, wishing he could do more.

He didn't dare look up where the voice originated. It sounded male, and young. That was all he could tell from the haze of fear still turning his mouth dry.

"Why are you killing them?"

Still, the voice was more exhausted than confused. He sounded, Itama realized in a moment of startling clarity, like one of the Elders. Specifically, when Butsuma was frustrated at a lack of progress—it was old and worn and entirely fed up delicately worded sentences.

The Uchiha's faces had gone slack with confusion, while the Hagaromo were twitchy, expecting a counterattack any moment. For a horrible moment, Itama hoped. It was horrible because _he was not going to survive,_ it was irrefutable fact, but he couldn't help hoping someone would come in time. He didn't _want_ to die. It was an irrational hope, born of his youth, because he hadn't even lived yet—he was too young to die.

A thump of someone landing finally snapped Itama's gaze to the newcomer. The boy, no older than Hashirama, had jumped out of a tree to join them on the ground. He was raven-haired and pale; clearly an Uchiha, even without their clan symbol on his back.

"I don't care that you're Tajima's son," said one of the Uchiha—a tall man with brown hair. "Heir or not, this is treason."

The air was punched out of Itama's gut. He looked the new boy head to toe all over again. The _heir_. The Clan Head's son—Uchiha _Tajima's_ eldest _son_.

Everything else clicked at that moment. The _heir to the Uchiha Clan_ was trying to stop the Uchiha and Hagaromo. Itama was clinging to Kawarama for support now, feeling very faint.

"They're children," said the Heir, as though pointing out food was for eating. "Why are you wasting time on children?"

That stung. Still, Itama couldn't shake the feeling the Heir wasn't sparing them for their unworthiness. He had never associated _morals_ with _Uchiha_ before, but it appeared that could change in the future. _If_ he survived to see it.

"They're Senju," said another Uchiha, dark-haired, also sporting a ponytail. They had two very nasty blades strapped to their waist. "That's reason enough."

"It's senseless," said the Heir. "It's proving a point, but what point? That we just kill whoever?"

One of the Hagaromo broke in with a sneer. "Pretty speech, but we can't stick around. I'll carve your guts out myself if you don't move."

Two kunai appeared in the boy's hand, gripped between his fingers.

"I'm talking to my clan. Not you. Get out."

The Hagaromo went for a sash full of pouches that Itama knew were full of explosive powder.

"Do you want to run that by me again?"

A kunai lodged in the man's throat. Another shot through the air and stabbed the other Hagaromo through the eye. Both bodies dropped in unison.

Kawarama let out a tiny whimper. Or maybe it was Itama. He couldn't tell anymore.

"_Animals_ attack the young for food and brutality," said the Heir. "_Animals_ shed blood in vain. We are not animals. We are _better_."

The Uchiha eyed the bodies cooling on the forest floor, then Itama and Kawarama, visibly shaking.

"I mean, really," said the Heir, who turned around, so Itama could see his face at long last. He was remarkably unremarkable—another Uchiha with high cheekbones. "Look at them. Who even put them in armor? Who looks at that and thinks, '_I'm gonna murder_,'?"

"We get the point," sighed the older Uchiha. They cast one last sidelong look at Itama, which made the hair on the back of his neck go on end. "You have your lives."

The Heir said something else—"Let's go," or another command like it—and the Uchiha were off.

Itama slumped down the boulder, dragging Kawarama with him. He snapped his mouth shut, when he realized he was gaping. Kawarama curled up into his side, like a petrified roly-poly. There was little else they could do, because try as he might, Itama couldn't move.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, before there was movement in the trees and Hashirama burst out, a wild fear in his eyes.

"_You're alive_," he cried out, falling over them, gathering them in his arms.

Tears soaked into Itama's hair and he bit his lip, trying to keep from crying. It was a weakness that Butsuma berated them for, but as Hashirama sobbed in desperate relief, Itama couldn't stop himself. His eyes burned over against his will.

Kawarama sounded like cracking glass as he whispered, "They let us live."

Hashirama's shuddering paused. He pulled away enough to look at their faces.

"What?"

"The Uchiha let us live."

* * *

**notes: Figured I'd start crossposting this one FFnet before I had too many chapters finished! Something about spam posting 20+ chapters bothers me, lol. **

**Also, yes. I'm still on my HashiMada bullshit.**

**The title is inspired by Marina's trailer for Electra Heart, "The Archetypes." **


	2. The Ghost in His Lungs

**Chapter Two**

**The Ghost in His Lungs**

There was a problem with having nearly one hundred years worth of memories seared into one's brain. That being, the human brain wasn't __supposed__ to have one hundred years worth of memories dropped into it. Memories weren't meant for passing around like cheap wine, but extenuating circumstances allowed for miraculous things.

Let it not be mistaken, Madara regaining consciousness was a very miraculous thing.

He'd spent the past several days in a fever-induced coma. His heart gave out three times. Izuna had cried himself into a stupor in a corner of his tent, while three medic-nin had bustled worked around the clock to keep him alive. Three days of constant supervision later, he opened his eyes.

The medic-nin seemed to be waiting for him to keel over again. That was fair enough—he had been drooling thickly into his bedroll, and came all too close to dying.

Waking up was only the beginning. There was a sense of wrongness that lurked around his every thought and action. The words in his head were faint and slippery. Izuna's coarse hair through his fingers was distant, something bewildering. He tried to bring the feeling to his fingers, and he could __feel__ it. But it was __wrong__ and he wanted to pull his own hair out, trying to put words to the absence.

He didn't realize what, exactly, had changed until he tried to sleep. His nightmares had lungs to breathe. They had hearts to beat, had memories in his skull that bounced around and whispered.

As the medics checked him for brain damage, Madara tactfully did not mention the information knocking around in his memory banks that he was most assuredly not supposed to possess.

He knew the way he died. More importantly, he knew how he'd avoid death. Sometime in the future, he became something else. Something fallen and low, scraping the ground for warmth in vain.

There was a face in his mind. It was smiling. It was also screaming.

—__my dream. I won't let you destroy my dream__—

It was a lovely face. It was horrible face.

Madara loathed him for every inch that he loved him.

There were decades of information to sift through, details to discard. He didn't need, or want, to remember that time he listened to a song on repeat for over three years. Horrifyingly enough, he was looking forward to the time it was composed again. Wrapping his brain around the mental image of himself with silver hair and—were those __liver spots?__—and trying to pick out the parts of him that looked like Tajima was difficult. Maybe, in the cleft chin. Even in old age, Madara ever and always was his mother's child.

He'd turned into a hermit, summoned a giant glowing fox—or had he done that __before__ he was a hermit?—and then he'd become an even __bigger__ hermit. Then, he summoned a red moon. He'd gone all ashen white, corpse-like, which was fitting because he was supposed to be __dead__.

Madara plopped down on pine needles, burying his face in his hands. The ground whirled around him. He'd wanted to regain his senses, not lose them even further.

A smaller pair of feet appeared in his field of vision. He recognized the messy stitching of Izuna's handiwork.

"Are you alright? Should I fetch a healer?"

"No," said Madara quickly. He straightened up, pulling his face out of his hands.

Izuna crouched, but didn't join him in the dirt. It was a lesser known fact, one that Izuna did a very good job hiding, that he disliked germs. And dirt. And animal hair. And blood. He disliked a lot of things.

"I'm sure Father will understand if you need a couple more days to recuperate," said Izuna, hugging his knees. His eyes were dark and full of worry. There was a hint of sunburn on his cheeks from where he'd been training outside without protective oils. "He doesn't show it, but he's worried."

Over the course of one relatively short human lifespan, Uchiha Tajima had worried for very few things. Least of all his worries was the overall health of his sons, unless it had something to do with the sharingan. He wasn't always like that, but loss changed people and Tajima had lost a lot.

Had the memories in Madara's head been dumped there only a few years prior, it could have been different. He could have saved his younger brothers. It was something cruel that he was given all the information, the ultimate cheat sheet to the universe, when it was already too late to make the biggest changes. Perhaps, he thought pessimistically, because it was the sort of petty thing he would do, his current age was chosen to make a point. It was a lesson that he could never really make a difference.

"Aniki?" said Izuna, as the silence stretched on too long. "I'm going to—"

"No," said Madara again, frowning and tearing his mind way from the word. It was like peeling off sticky tendrils. "No. I'm fine, I promise."

He picked himself off the ground, brushing dirt off his yukata. Izuna stood with him, still troubled.

"Will a spar convince you I'm not secretly dying?" Madara groused, crumbling under the constant pressure of his brother's worried gaze following him.

"Maybe," said Izuna, smug in a way that meant he wanted that outcome the entire time.

Madara trudged toward the patches of meadow dedicated to blowing each other up in a __friendly__ way, while Izuna bounced circles around him. Izuna could have just __asked__ to spar, he thought witheringly, though he couldn't muster any real heat. It was as though all the wind was stolen out of his sails and he drifted on an aimless undertow.

A handful of Uchiha, who weren't attending to clan duties or resting injuries after the latest scuffle, were scattered about the training grounds. The grasses had mostly been singed away, though a few hardy parts clung to life. One of the younger Uchiha was doing his best to remedy that with his fire jutsu, though he was a hair short of total destruction. Two teenagers were practicing flashy sword movements that would undoubtedly be harshly criticized later.

The Elders were good for one thing, and that was ensuring anything remotely __stylish__ didn't survive its infancy.

There was a quiet rebellion sweeping through the Clan, consisting of small bits of embroidery added to the sleeves of their mantles. Flashes of color where there was none before, increasingly wild hairstyles that were known to give the Elders aneurisms. Hokibo, one of the oldest Elders alive to date—legend said he extended his lifespan by causing the younger generations misery—had tried to claim the sudden color nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.

Madara didn't actively partake, but he knew Izuna had taken to stitching flowers into his sleeves. Tajima had shaved off the bottom half of his hair.

"Just taijutsu?" said Izuna, wrapping his knuckles up with bandages. He was hopping side to side on his heels, unable to contain himself. A couple passersby exchanged grins. "Some weapons?"

"Free for all," said Madara, just to watch him whoop with joy.

That was also the only warning he gave. He leapt back, skidding several feet, and gathered his chakra.

Izuna darted sideways for the trees, using a trunk as a springboard, and flung himself at Madara feet-first.

A fire jutsu billowed out, aimed upward to stop Izuna—who was feinting, because he appeared __behind__ Madara, lashing out with a blunted blade. It glinted through the air, met by Madara's kunai. The clash of metal against metal was a familiar song.

Madara flipped back over the ninja wire that had layered the field into sections. He swept in a roll under another line—he would have to suggest fuuinjutsu to his brother. The wires breaking the battlefield into sections was good by itself, as Izuna was acrobatic enough for it to not slow him down a single beat, but adding an extra dynamic to the battlefield could only benefit him—

A flurry of shuriken whizzed by his ear. He blocked three of them and ducked the last one.

He was on the defensive. There was a delay between his brain and movements that made it feel as though he was constantly operating in the wrong time zone. It wouldn't take his brother long to figure out something was wrong and either press it to his advantage, or succumb to concern again.

Madara almost activated his sharingan. __Almost__, because he wasn't supposed to have it yet. He didn't remember when he got it, or how; whether he was happy or angry when he activated it first. There was a flash of Hashirama's disappointed face in his mind, the river to his back as he left __for good__. Whatever emotion triggered his sharingan the first time wasn't positivity.

He threw himself to the side and met Izuna's water jutsu with another fire one.

A burst of killing intent struck him like a tanto through his ribs.

He met Izuna's sword—faltered halfway through, his heart stuttering—Izuna's blade slid along the kunai, a wordless cry escaping him—

Madara twisted at the last possible second, tearing desperately at that __delay__, sharp agony flaring in his abdomen.

__"ANIKI!"__

Izuna dropped his sword, rushing forward. He flung out five kunai, striking the ninja wires down. The field emptied of obstacles, he dropped at Madara's side, grabbing his arm.

There were other Uchiha already flooding the training grounds, three medic-nin Madara hadn't even noticed standing on the fringes of the field rushing in, hands glowing green. Even further away, at the very edge of the field, was Tajima. His arms were crossed over his chest, entirely motionless, dark eyes surveying the scene with complete calm and an absence of something Madara wasn't used to not seeing. It took him a while to root it out, but when he did, his heart plunged into subzero temperatures.

__Pride__. He'd never seen his father look so disappointed.

Voices turned disoriented and faraway. He'd slipped below the surface of a stormy ocean he hadn't known he was battling. Thoughts crystallized into a fractured, bastardized version of reality that was __not his own__.

Hands pressed him down, anchored him. He followed the lifeline to the surface and gasped for breath, looking into three pairs of dark eyes. They were the medic-nin who'd kept him alive during his fever's worst.

"Breathe, Madara, __breathe—__"

"It's not a bad wound. He's in shock, Izuna-chan."

A blanket had been draped around Izuna's shoulder. He had planted himself at Madara's side, firm as a stone gargoyle, stuck to his arm.

It was a glorified scratch. Once the stinging pain faded and the unwavering belief he was dying passed, all he was left with was a lingering shame. He pushed away the medics' attempts to tend the wound more than it already was, and left the field quickly enough that he could only be fleeing.

He was followed. No one could ever claim Izuna wasn't dedicated, at the very least.

Memories threw lassos around his brain. They told him __do that__ or __go there__, spelled out a thousand ways he could make it easier. Only, they talked all at once, and he couldn't pick one out, and they were getting __angry__.

It took Madara longer than ever before to give his brother the slip. Izuna was either getting better at tracking, or Madara was getting slower—both of which were accurate in their own way. His attempt to lose Izuna ended with him circling back around to the clan encampment.

Scattered rows of tents were set up in a clearing. They had stayed in the area long enough for faint paths to be trampled between the tents. The scent of nature, the pines and damp soil, mixed with the aroma of food being cooked in the center of the encampment. A smoldering bonfire was kept burning at all times of the day. During mealtimes, the Uchiha always ate communally, sitting around fallen logs.

They lived like vagabonds and nomads.

Adding insult to injury, no more than a few miles to the west, nestled in the side of a gargantuan valley, was the Uchiha Stronghold. It was a solid three miles into Senju land and guarded from all sides to keep the Uchiha out. Sturdy granite walls were capable of fending off nearly all attacks, the shadowed side of the valley giving the Uchiha a visual advantage. Underground passages crawled through the mountainsides. Tajima had tried to get to the stronghold through some of the passages, but the closest one was in the Kaguya Clan territory.

The Kaguya Clan took sport in hanging the skulls of their dead around their compounds. That, by itself, was reason enough for the Uchiha to want to stay __well__ away. Paired with the fact they had a personal grudge against the Uchiha, the Kaguya Clan were the literal boogeymen that Uchiha parents put their children to bed with.

Madara could safely say, even with the memories, he would probably sooner eat out his own heart than let himself become captured alive by a Kaguya.

Point was, they weren't getting to that tunnel. That left them to push through the Senju territory to their own stronghold.

The loss of the stronghold was a sore spot to Tajima. Madara had heard the story many times, growing up—especially after his mother's death. She'd been a stopper in many of Tajima's worst habits, chiefly among them being the need to rant out the most horrible, unchangeable things plaguing him to whoever was closest. Typically, that person was Madara.

No more than a week after Tajima was made clan head, shortly after Madara's birth, the Uchiha were pushed out of the stronghold. It was a surprise attack by the Senju, aided by the Uzumaki, and they had been unprepared. Rations had been low—another shipment was on the way, but it would have taken __too long__—and the clan was shaken after the death of the previous clan head, and Madara was born premature. He was born pale and thin-limbed. He hadn't cried or moved around much.

With his eldest son not guaranteed to survive the week, Tajima had withdrawn the clan through the tunnels. They collapsed it behind them, to prevent its discovery. To the conjoined Uzumaki and Senju, it was as though they'd disappeared. To Tajima, it was the greatest failure of his life.

It was the reason Tajima kept throwing squads of Uchiha at the border, why they had returned from the grasslands instead of __staying there__, where they didn't have to fight to survive every day. The choice annoyed Madara in a way he hadn't understood a mere days prior. He hadn't even __cared__.

Dozens of Uchiha hustled through the encampment. They were busy with duties, cooking and cleaning and taking stock of their supplies. Makoto, who was Hikaku's father, Madara remembered after a moment of struggling, was checking items away on a list. His face was drawn and taut.

On the edge of the encampment, in the largest tent, Madara heard his father shouting. It wasn't the panicked call to battle, but the usual bellow of rage directed at the Elders, or whatever unfortunate Uchiha had earned his ire.

Madara drew his chakra in close, making himself as nondescript as possible. It wasn't hard, considering the others were preoccupied—either with actual occupations or just trying to appear as such, so they could avoid Tajima.

Tajima was giving out orders. His voice was deep and rumbling, ever the juxtaposition of tension and relief. It had been a very long time since Tajima had just been __Father__, though, so the balance had drifted into what sharply resembled distrust.

He saw the mangekyou in his head, __his own__ mangekyou. There were precious few people in the world Madara loved deeply enough to trigger such a thing. He would pitch himself into Kaguya territory before he hurt a hair on Izuna's head, so there was only one person left. Tajima dying in combat was __expected__, so it had to be awful. It had to be something so unforgivable that Madara would kill him.

The problem about decades' worth of memories was that there was a lot of them. One would be surprised—or perhaps they wouldn't be—the sort of important details that could be lost in translation.

He dropped onto his haunches outside the tent, listening carefully. A little voice that sounded oddly like Hashirama warned that he'd __never__ liked anything he'd heard eavesdropping.

Information gathering, he told himself, was different than listening into talks about a new form of government. Talks he __wasn't invited to__, Madara realized, with a flare of irritation. He didn't like the albino one already.

The name __Hagoromo__ snatched his attention away from memory quickly enough.

Frenzied energy kindled in his chest. He was reminded of the time he guzzled six cups of coffee on an empty stomach and proceeded to have a panic attack over his pocky. His hands shook and his chest ached. The ground wasn't supposed to be rolling under his feet.

He stumbled into the forest, bounding up two trees to reach the top of another, clinging to the branches for support and for sanity.

Hagoromo__. Otsutsuki Hagoromo.__ That wasn't right.

The Hagoromo Clan were warlike.

Half the birds in the Uchiha aviary were gifts from the Hagoromo, after their brokered alliance. Madara swayed in the tree, piecing together the scraps he could remember from the alliance. It was a recent one. Very recent, in fact—the reason Tajima risked drawing close to Senju territory again. They had an alliance with the Hagoromo for land, an equal share of food, a percentage of the profits gained on each mercenary contract—for both clans.

He slumped down the side of the tree, clinging to the edges of the branch with his bare feet. As though he could physically keep his brain from flipping upside-down again, he pressed his palms to his temples.

In a few years, the alliance would break. The Hagoromo cheated the Uchiha, even as he was putting together a timeline in his head. A battle would break out that resulted in the deaths of a couple of Izuna's close friends. He remembered that much with clarity.

First order of business: the Hagoromo Clan had to go.

Madara shot to his feet, tripped, and cursed profusely as he fell through several layers of branches, managing to catch himself mere feet from the ground. That was the second time a burst of unusual clumsiness nearly resulted in serious injury.

He jumped the rest of the way down to the forest floor. Kneading chakra between his fingers, his senses extended outward. Uchiha squads had already been dispatched, with a couple unfamiliar chakra signatures. That would be the Hagoromo Clan members. One squad was well into Senju territory already, made up of half a dozen shinobi. At least two of them were Hagoromo.

The first of many joint missions to follow, according to the memories in Madara's head, started with the death of a child.

It was important, said the energy in his gut—it really did remind him of a caffeine rush. The clan didn't own coffee at the moment. That was another thing gifted to them by the Hagoromo.

He mourned the existence of coffee in the clan as he darted in the direction of the squad.

A pair of Senju children had already been surrounded when he arrived. Other bodies were strewn about the forest floor, hidden in the choking underbrush, torn apart in a way that was distinctly __Hagoromo Clan__ signature. They loved their explosions.

One child was a little taller than the other, two-toned brown and silver hair split down his scalp. The other child was younger, drowning in his armor, with fluffy brown hair. Their hazel eyes were vaguely familiar, filled with terror. The younger child was on the verge of tears.

"What are you doing?"

Madara expected a massacre. There was enough blood staining the leaves and ferns to make it look like a massacre, with two extra bodies joining the others.

He never planned on sparing the Hagoromo, but at least they made it easy for him to kill them. They had threatened him, after all. Loosely.

The children watched him, their faces masks of terror, conflicting with a painful sort of hope that made his gut clench. He wanted to tell them he wasn't their hero. It wasn't mercy. It was a ghost in his head, wailing decades of grief and regret, walking with his feet and talking with his tongue. It wasn't __him__.

He gave the Uchiha gathered a sharp glare, instead. "Head out."

They bolted back to encampment, a storm brewing behind their eyes, while Madara took to the trees. He lingered in the shadows, ignoring the voice in his head whispering __that was still all he was good for__, and watched the children. Neither of them moved, only sliding to the ground with shaky limbs, clinging to each other. He wasn't worried for them—he called the churning in his gut __curiosity__, and tried not to think about it.

As though summoned from the section of Madara's thought that was dedicated to him as of late, Hashirama burst from the trees. He brought the sun with him, a rare burst of light filtering through the thick canopies. It speckled the ground in sunspots. Madara could hardly bear to watch them, holding onto each other like victims to a raging ocean.

He saved Hashirama's brothers. The ghost in his head had fallen silent. He wondered if he'd imagined it all along.

The littlest one uttered the damning words—"__The Uchiha spared us__."—and Madara knew it was time to leave. Soon, word would spread through the Senju. Word would reach the Uchiha. He remembered the squad's vindictive glares with a lurch and realized word had already struck with the force of a hurricane.

Madara turned his back to Hashirama and his family, and __ran__.

* * *

Some people were good at talking themselves out of problems.

There was once a man caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar—it was best not to state what his hand was __actually__ in—and managed to talk his way out of the situation. He was exiled from three consecutive countries as a result of his misstep, but considering the crime would have had him lynched under normal circumstances, it was a lenient sentence. The man lived out the rest of his days in relative peace, with a child he loved dearly.

However, in the vast and great world, there were those so utterly incapable of talking themselves out of awkward situations, they ended up making everything __worse__.

Madara belonged to the later group.

"__They provoked you!?__"

Sure enough, it hadn't take long for the news to hit the Uchiha Clan. If nothing else, the squad was merciful enough to give Madara a day to stew over the encroaching fallout. (Either that, or they were hoping to see him sweat bullets through his yukata.) There was so much paperwork that needed Tajima's attention, it took him a day to find out. Madara wasn't sure it was better or worse, that Tajima had to find out from a report.

A frown flickered over his face. Now that he thought it through, Tajima probably would have preferred being debriefed immediately.

"__They__ provoked __you!?__" Tajima repeated, yelling, angry in a way Madara wasn't used to. Not even the decades of memories could had prepared him for it.

His father seemed taller, filling every corner of the tent. Madara belatedly realized it was killing intent. While Tajima never hesitated to throw around a threatening aura to get his way, Madara had never before looked at his father and seen his own corpse. It was a promise—a declaration that while Madara was the oldest, he was not the only son.

"They __provoked you!? __That is __not__ what I understood from the report—one of which __you did not turn in__."

"I—" Madara's voice strangled off. He regretted the syllable the moment he voiced it.

"They were our __allies__!" roared Tajima, slamming his hands into the desk set up in his office. The papers Madara had been tasked with painstakingly organizing fluttered to the ground. "How do you think I should inform them of this, hmm?!"

The inkwells and quills rattled as he banged the desk again.

"HOW?"

Madara couldn't tell if it was a rhetorical question or not. It didn't matter much, in the long run, because his voice was entirely stuck in his throat. He felt every one of his fourteen years, and not a single one of the ninety echoing around in his head.

"They will call for your punishment," said Tajima, wrath dying down to a hoarse simmer, though his eyes burned like hot coals. Three tomoe spun in a frantic circle. "I will meet their Clan Head tomorrow to discuss your infraction, and then your punishment will be decided. You are dismissed."

He walked out on stiff legs. It was all he could do to keep himself from folding into the ground. Waiting outside was a small crowd of curious and vaguely worried Uchiha, including Izuna.

Izuna cornered him outside the encampment.

"What were you thinking?" he hissed quietly. "Interrupting a squad is bad enough, but k-__killing__ allies—"

The betrayed confusion on his face, as though he wasn't sure who was standing before him anymore, speared him through the heart.

He drew in a sharp breath, wanting to defend himself, but no explanation was fitting. Nothing was __good__ enough to explain the madness that had gripped his mind.

__Oh__, and he __was__ going mad, wasn't he? Hearing voices, seeing things, convinced he was so much older than he really was—he was going frothing-of-the-mouth __mad__.

He could lie. He could claim it was about protecting the innocent. That was understandable, even believable—most shinobi spent their lives pretending they weren't the monsters they knew they were, deep down.

"Why did you do it?" said Izuna.

"We don't need the Hagoromo Clan."

"They were our allies!"

"They were child killers," said Madara. If he told himself that enough times, maybe he would start to believe it, though he would never have moral superiority, in one life or another.

"They were Senju—"

"They were __younger than you__!" Madara burst out. "They were unarmed and alone. Only __cowards__ would target them and—and the Uchiha are above that."

Izuna opened his mouth to argue, but closed it shut with a snap. He flexed his hands restlessly, eyes flicking around, searching for something to say. When he looped through that sequence three more times, Madara decided to leave him to puzzle it out on his own.

It wasn't running away. He was staging a tactical retreat, giving his brother time to turn it over in his head.

Avoiding the enormous pile of animal droppings that had all but appeared under his feet, he darted his way through the forest with the grace of the deer that probably left the droppings. Izuna tried to put up chase for a few minutes, but Madara lost him between the valley and Nakano River, diverting his attention with a bunshin. He would have to explain the sudden ability to use a bunshin, but that was a problem for future Madara.

He needed to see Hashirama.

(He wanted to see Hashirama.)

It started as pressure in his chest.

Madara came to a stop on a branch, coughing lightly into his fist. His landing was unsteady, the branch swaying under his feet, and his rapid attempt to flood chakra to his feet—to stick to the branch, resulted in a chakra overload he hadn't experienced since he was three years old.

He gripped at the tree, an invisible hand pressing down on his sternum. For a horrible moment, gasping and clawing for breath, even as his attempts sent sharp pangs through him, he imagined dying in the middle of the forest. He was alone. No one would find his body for __weeks__—if they found him at all.

Medic-nin had just been inspecting his body, he reminded himself, a single rational thought rattling like the last brown leaf at the end of autumn. They had found nothing wrong with him.

Faces of people he knew flashed across his mind. Izuna, so young and bright and—__dead.__

__Dead. Pale, small in death, so small. He'd shrunk a few inches. Hollowed eyes__—__pasty face__—__arms crossed__—

__"Don't trust them."__

—__dead__—__he was dead__—__he was__—

__Tobirama or Hashirama. Hashirama or Tobirama.__

__Who was Tobirama?__

—__won't let you__—__MY DREAM__—

That face was horrible and beautiful. Bronze skinned and dark haired and hazel eyes gone cold. He remembered a time when they were warmer than the sun, richer than fertile soil, and now he'd become the stone he carved his face into. A legend. A leader. A god of shinobi.

A wheeze broke through Madara's torrential downpour of thoughts. They were so disorganized, he would have an easier time piecing together a jigsaw puzzle without a picture. He had no names, the memories were soundless, only vague recollections of words spoken. The memories were deafening in their overwhelming silence.

He grasped for something that wasn't incongruent, something alive, and dug his fingers into dirt and pine needles. Sticks dug into his side. He'd fallen out of the tree, and the wheezing, gasping breaths were coming from __him__. He flopped onto his back, arms outstretched, as though he could stretch his chest far enough to let in air.

Only, that __hurt__, and suddenly he was doubled over, clawing at his skin, and his mind was dissolving into a white haze, purpled darkness creeping over his vision and his face going numb.

There was a sun so warm and lovely it melted him to his bones, turned him into bird-picked carrion on a dead battlefield. He was a fossil, a terrible reminder of a dark past reaching forward with skeletal fingers. There were colorful rooftops and a mountain that gazed into a hopeful future.

__Look after them, forever__.

A village and a hope, and Madara remembered it __all__. He remembered a dream that was never really his, that one last lifeboat in a world gone wrong. And __he__ had let go. Madara couldn't remember which one of them was __he__.

That face was everything. It was—

His fingers tingled, pulling himself to his hands and knees, begging himself not to die. He didn't want to die.

He curled into a ball, rocking back and forth.

__MY DREAM__—__YOU WON'T__—__You'll make a wonderful Hokage__—__NO ONE TOUCHES HIM__—__The village hidden in__—

A crowd of dark haired people grew thinner by the passing decades. There was a night stained by the blood of the innocent and guilty alike. A hundred voices cried out for justice and were forgotten. There was a boy with Izuna's face and Tajima's hatred—or was it Izuna's hatred, too?

"__Stop__," he gasped out roughly, voice breaking, gripping at his skull. He wanted it all to stop. "I __can't__—"

He was Madara. He was fourteen years old. He had a little brother named Izuna who he loved more than anything in the world. There was a ghost living in his head.

Sometime in the future, there was a village. It was a prosperous village. More and more people would migrate to it, by the hundreds and thousands. It carved out a new way of living—a reality governed by shinobi, in bigger clans, with different names, fighting the same wars with larger battlefields.

Madara remembered that future, knew it with such intimacy that he could only have lived it.

He was fourteen years old. His beloved little brother was Izuna. At some point in the future, Izuna would die, young and in vain. The turn of the century would see the death of the Uchiha Clan.

Pulling himself against a tree, he dragged his knees to his chest. Something warm dripped down his cheek, blood or tears or both.

He sucked in a shaky breath. Then another—and another. He gathered all the memories in his head, the soundless words spoken, the wars waged and lives lost. He balled them up, locked them away. They weren't really gone. They were too much for that, banging against his skull as though he was their cage and key and medium all at once.

Unsteady on his feet, he stumbled through the forest toward Nakano River. He hadn't met Hashirama in weeks and he was determined to make an attempt. There were thoughts in his head and emotions in his heart that weren't his own. He had __information__ and he was the __last__ person to do anything with it. He had a whole lifetime of bad choices to prove it.

A village that sparked a world war would never work. Except, that dream hadn't just caused one world war. It caused __five.__ And if Madara was responsible for the last one, then there was one good way to prevent it.

If fate was determined to prove a point, he would prove one back. Hashirama could have his village. He could have his giant clan, with a fancy new name. Madara was going to gather up his family, his clan, and take them somewhere far away, __because obviously Konoha had not needed the Uchiha__.

* * *

The rushing sound of water reached through the trees sooner than he expected. He'd somehow meandered over two miles. Shinobi did not blank out, as a rule, and he ought to have spared it a moment of worry, but his chest was still sore. His throat was raw and he was __exhausted__. He wanted to sleep.

He leaned against a tree and looked out over the Nakano, regretting his decision to come at all. He couldn't have predicted—whatever that was that happened to him, but it had drained him. The last time he felt so tired, he'd taken a poisoned kunai to his ribs.

There was no sign of Hashirama, but he was also a couple riverbends down from where they usually met. It was a lost cause. He could turn around now and none would be the wiser.

Madara couldn't explain why his legs carried him down the river anyway. Down that way was Hashirama, whose smiles were always genuine and easy. Thought of him used to spark something like adrenaline in Madara's heart. An ache, soul-deep and pervasive, spread through him. It wasn't all his own pain. He wasn't quite sure where he ended and that twisted creature from the future began, anymore—and that terrified him.

He wasn't sure he was up to talking, let alone with someone like Hashirama.

Still, Hashirama was simple, future and present. He was always the same. He was—

"__Madara!__"

He was right there, waving at him. The grin was on his face and his eyes were warm. Vaguely, Madara thought the stone monument didn't do him justice.

Only, the grin turned sheepish, and he was rubbing his neck. And he wasn't alone.

Madara froze in his tracks. __Run__, said his brain. His body—that delay, __what was it?__—remained stuck steadfastly to the ground.

"I can explain—"

Hashirama had somehow bound up to him without Madara noticing. He blinked, his body uncoiled, but he still didn't run. He needed to run.

"—but I __promise__ they only want to talk!"

Hands closed around his shoulders and Madara's body chose that moment to react. Hashirama dodged three kunai with a yelp, blocking another one, ducking under a fifth.

He shrieked as Madara charged at him with a downward-chopping kick, leading with his heel.

"MADARA!"

A great deal of anger was starting to stir in Madara's chest. He wasn't sure how much of it was his, either, but he was beyond caring.

"WAIT—"

These were __their__ secret meetings.

"I'M SORRY—"

Madara and Hashirama. __Not__ Madara, Hashirama, and __all of Hashirama's friends__.

"No, __wait-don't-kill-me__—"

He could have sworn secrecy was a big thing between them. They'd even had their unspoken promise. No clan names, no questions about their family. They knew about each others' brothers out of a sacred trust bonded between the two of them after many sparring matches. Madara knew that any person who could put up with his temperament—have grass shoved in his mouth, endure belittlement and insults, and __still__ laugh about it afterwards—was a keeper.

Another person flew at him, whom he dodged and kicked in the back. He didn't pull a single hit, forming a wordless snarl, because this was between him and Hashirama. If they dared to interrupt, they got a foot in their spinal cord.

"__Ow-ow-ow-ow__," Hashirama wailed as Madara finally wrestled him to the ground, hands on his ears.

He bared his teeth in what definitely wasn't a grin. "Who are they?"

"They're my __brothers__! Leggo of my ears—__OUCH__—"

"Why are they here!?"

"Tobirama, help m—OW!"

"__Don't__ ignore me."

Standing with his arms crossed, several yards away from them, was a shorter boy with silver hair and an entirely unimpressed expression. His burgundy eyes were narrowed at Hashirama, as though he somehow knew every inconvenience, major or minor, was his fault.

The boy sounded every bit as unamused as he looked. "You brought this on yourself."

Hashirama tried to get something out, but he was hindered by the large clod of mud Madara was smearing over his face.

"__Why__ did you bring your brothers here?" he asked, hating the way Hashirama's face covered in mud—so inglorious—made a bubble of amusement float around his chest. "Why didn't you warn me?"

"I wanted to!" said Hashirama quickly. "I really, really wanted to! But you weren't showing—and I thought maybe you weren't coming __at all__ anymore—or maybe something happened—or that you'd come, only to tell me you were __never coming again__—"

"What's that got to do with your brothers?"

"Well, they wanted to meet you," said Hashirama, deflating dramatically. His chin wrinkled up the way it always did when he was upset. "They __harassed__ me, I was __coerced__—"

"You were __not__," said the silver-haired boy sharply, cutting across the shore to stand over them. "You were sneaking off all day, then you came back that day __moping__—"

"I wasn't moping—"

"—you were moping," said the boy. "And we were worried."

He aimed a narrow-eyed glare at Madara.

"It looks like we were right to be worried."

Madara dropped Hashirama's yukata, letting him fall to the ground. He clambered off him, rising to meet the new boy's rude stare evenly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

There was a weak cough behind him. Hashirama sat up, wiping a streak of blood away from his mouth. He gave Madara a pathetic, watery look that made him grimace. He was covered in grass stains and there were a couple new bruises on his arms.

Madara crossed his arms defensively, mirror the other boy. "He startled me."

"Battle instincts, hmm?" said the boy. "Shinobi?"

"As if you didn't know that before," Madara sneered rudely. Something about the boy gave him the same sort of bitter fury that swelled whenever the debt collectors showed up to inquire about the Uchiha Clan's loans. "Don't act like you're some kind of investigator—"

"Uchiha, huh?"

Madara stuttered to a halt, arms dropping to his sides. He took an involuntary step back. The boy watched him with a smug grin, pale ruby eyes flashing with mirth.

"How did you—there's __no way__—"

He whirled on Hashirama, who reacted by throwing his hands up in surrender. A plaintive sort of smile stole over his face.

"Er, Madara," he said, with the kind of polite tone one might use when informing a friend that they had spinach between their teeth. "You—um…"

"You walked out in your clan markings, moron," said the silver-haired boy.

Hashirama groaned in exasperation, throwing his head back. "__Tobirama__."

There was more than one wary eye on him, but Madara was too preoccupied groping his mantle, feeling for the rough texture of the Uchiha fan on his back. It was there, proud and colorful—cheerfully announcing to the world he was Uchiha Madara, enemy of every person Tajima managed to infuriate. That was a lot of people.

"Oh," he said, feeling very overwhelmed. He took another step back, ignoring Hashirama's half-raised hand in protest, and dropped onto a bolder. "Oh."

"Are you—er—alright?" said Hashirama, looking terribly awkward. He edged around the bolder, leaning against it near Madara, though keeping far enough that he was out of striking range. "You're a little… pale."

Madara lifted his face out of his hands. Memories in his head stirred, said __wrong__, but he shoved them away. He wanted the present, not that depressing future.

"I guess you're not… horribly against the Uchiha?" he said tentatively, barely able to hope. They were both Senju, but they hadn't killed him yet. That had to mean something.

The other two moved forward slowly. He'd almost forgotten about them, quiet as they were, but the moment he saw them, his breath stuttered in his lungs. His eyes widened. A flush of embarrassment rushed to his cheeks and he wanted the world to swallow him whole.

"Oh," he said again. He dropped his head in his hands.

"No, wait—" said the two-toned boy, who also looked as though he was in over his head. "I want to say… thank you."

Madara lifted his face out of his hands—again. He was too stunned to form words.

"What?" said Hashirama, who'd probably never been speechless once his whole life.

"He saved us," said the brown-haired boy, eyes shining, stepping around all three of his brothers with far more boldness than the two-toned one. He stuck out a hand to shake. "I'm Kawarama. Thanks for not letting them kill us."

"__He's __the Uchiha who spared you!?" Tobirama burst out incredulously, which Madara found incredibly unfair. They didn't even know each other. "__Him?__"

"That's wonderful!" Hashirama bellowed out with a laugh. He abandoned the careful distance and slung an arm around Madara's shoulders, crushing him in a sideways hug.

Their temples knocked together and Madara loathed with every inch of his being the flush that spread to his cheeks.

"It's… not that great," he muttered under his breath, tucking his head into his mantle.

Kawarama waved his hand in Madara's face insistently. "It's a pretty big deal to me and my brother. We almost __died.__"

"I'm sorry," said Madara sincerely, wincing as they drew back in bemusement. "My clansmen attacking children was—shameful. It never should have happened in the first place."

__A boy with dark hair, a single eye__—__redheaded and vast, powerful, unbelievable power__—__tools for his using. He knew all about shameful.__

"It didn't happen and we have you to thank for that," said Kawarama with an air of stubbornness that was too much like Hashirama. He stuck his hand even closer to Madara's face. Any closer, and it would be a poking hazard. "Are you gonna shake my hand or what?"

Itama's smile was small, but was every bit as earnest as Hashirama.

"You'd better do it. He won't stop," he said, prompting an exaggerated, offended look from Kawarama.

Madara shook his hand.


	3. Flight of the Weasel

**Chapter Three**

**Flight of the Weasel**

Food had a way of bringing people together. Nothing quite compared to the warmth of a good meal in one's stomach at the end of the day. Needless to say, a lack of food served to do the exact opposite.

As the oranges and golds of autumn slowly aged into gray, leaves cascading to the forest floor, the Uchiha felt winter encroaching on their dwindling supplies. The days turned into a murky overcast that either promised rain, or a deep malaise that drained at their energy. It was the same thing every year, as the nights overtook daylight. Unlike most years, they had no way of securing a supply-line that would last them through the winter.

No one was ready for the Hagoromo's sudden withdrawal from their alliance with the Uchiha Clan. Low whispers turned the clan encampment into a hornets' nest of rumors, sideways glances following Madara. They were going to starve. They weren't prepared. It was his fault.

To make matters worse, the Hagoromo had repositioned their compound. They stood between the Uchiha and the grasslands, the only other area they were familiar enough with to retreat. Everywhere else was occupied by enemies: Kaguya to their southeast, the Hatake Clan had migrated into the southern parts; and the Senju, as ever, dominated central Fire Country. There were the mountains, but the Hyuuga Clan had haunted those areas lately, and the Uchiha were unfriendly with them.

As the first few truly cold days set in, and the clan members' glares became a little too deliberate to ignore, there was relief from an unexpected corner. It shouldn't have been unexpected. At the end of the day, they were brothers, but Madara had reason enough to believe most of the world was very upset with him.

That, and he'd been giving Izuna the slip for the better part of two months.

One might be fooled to think that, having a brother whose name meant __weasel__, Madara would know better than to try and hide anything from him. One would be forgetting most of the terrible choices he made in the former future. It was true that he learned from his mistakes—no shinobi would __survive__ without adaption—but it was an unfortunate fact that, when faced with a difficult decision, Madara defaulted to two settings: __chronic__ avoidance, or arson.

Seeing as he was trying to keep Izuna alive, he went with avoidance.

Before moving onto a series of particularly spectacular events, one must know a few things about Uchiha Izuna.

For one, he was the little brother. There was a time he wasn't the youngest, but he had become so with their brothers' deaths, and Madara was all the more protective for it. There was a massive shadow in the shape of his talented older brother looming over him, and Tajima's flighty approval. Such critical standards would be enough to break the ambition of a lesser person, let alone a ten year old child, shinobi or not.

Izuna was __tenacious__. Give him a puzzle and he wouldn't stop until he'd figured it out. Pit him against an opponent five times his size, with thirty years more experience, and he'd yell, "__Bring it on!__" He might even throw on an expletive or two that would make Madara flush in horror.

Of all the people in the world, Izuna's curiosity would be the last Madara would want to pique.

As ever, one could choose their friends, but they couldn't choose their family.

* * *

There had never really been a silence between Madara and Hashirama, so it wasn't the chatter of three additional voices that struck a chord in him. Hashirama and his brothers were all so different, clashing in so many things, but arching in the same general rainbow.

He would have been contented to sit and watch, but Tobirama had challenged him to a game of shogi. Madara could see the relation to Hashirama. It was in the half-lidded look of smugness as he roped Madara into something that would undoubtedly end in a swift defeat. They had a while to go before Madara was even a fraction as comfortable around him, as he was around Hashirama, Itama, or Kawarama, but it was progress.

Tobirama never showed up outside of his armor, weapon pouches full, but that was understandable. Madara never left the encampment without a pouchful of kunai, either.

Three sore losses later, Madara almost threw the board. He would have liked to call it quits altogether, but Hashirama had been __whining__ for a turn since the first one ended. Itama and Kawarama were also deadly focused in the way that meant they, too, were expecting a turn. Madara shifted his legs into a more comfortable position. He would not be standing anytime soon.

In many ways, he was the shiny new toy. Neither Kawarama, nor Itama, had met another person outside the Senju who wasn't trying to kill them.

"Stop going easy, anija," said Tobirama.

Madara bristled. "You had __better not__—"

"I'm not!" said Hashirama urgently, hands held up, before throwing his brother a glare. "I lost my place now."

Madara stabbed an impatient finger at the board. "You moved there."

"He's lying," said Tobirama impishly.

"I am NOT!"

They had something of a schedule worked out. It had been Tobirama's first real move as a reluctant member of the Nakano River Top Secret Friends Squad, as Hashirama fondly called them. The name was shorted to Nakano Squad, which would later become NS in their letters, numbered NS1 through NS5 in order of shortest to tallest.

Madara squinted down at the parchment on a sunbathed rock. The marbled surface retained the last remnants of heat from autumn.

"Why height?" he said. He had a bad feeling about that. "Why not age?"

"You and Hashirama are the same age," said Tobirama.

"Hashirama is—" Madara cut himself off with a frown. "You're younger by a few months, right?"

"Nope!" said Hashirama cheerfully, popping the __P__. "I'm older. Does that mean I get NS1?"

"Actually," said Madara, "let's do the height thing."

Kawarama swung his legs back and forth. "What if you end up shorter than __all__ of us?"

Madara huffed a laugh. "__Right__. That's likely."

"Oh, I have an idea!" said Hashirama, perking up considerably. He'd sulked a bit over losing the NS1 position to Madara, who was taller than him by half an inch. "Let's do a bet. If we __all__ end up taller, you owe us!"

"Ten thousand ryo," said Tobirama gravely, rising to his haunches on the boulder next to Itama. "You'll have plenty of time to get that much money together before we're all adults."

"Isn't that number a bit…" Itama trailed off with a wince.

"My bad," said Tobirama dryly, throwing Madara a look that made his blood boil. "Make it twenty thousand."

"__Large__," Itama exclaimed in alarm. "I was going to say __large. Hefty__. Don't make him pay that much—anija, back me up here."

Hashirama had been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire exchange. He was rolling a leaf up, and looked up only when he felt their glares on him. His eye were wide and guileless, as though he hadn't heard every word they said.

"Yes?" he said.

"__Hashirama__," said Itama, sounding so disappointed that it was a wonder he didn't flinch.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Hashirama innocently. Too innocently. "Did you decide on betting money?"

Madara threw the forgotten slip of parchment and tackled him.

A lot of their meetings started and ended something like that. On those days, Madara felt grounded. He wasn't grasping through cobwebs around his mind, or screaming at his body to __move__ through the __stick__—stick, stick, __stick__—that sometimes gripped him. Those days, the sun was bright, even when it wasn't out.

Some days, Hashirama didn't make it. When he was assigned to a squad, Itama seemed to take it upon himself to corral them. Had it been anyone else, Madara might have taken offense, but it was hard to muster the faintest irritation at Itama. Madara called it intuition. Common sense said it had something to do with the day Itama was the only Senju brother to show, and he'd shyly asked about the Uchiha's aviary—and Madara had talked for hours. Common sense and fate had bonded over equal shares of frustration with Madara years ago.

It was that exact same day, as the evening had turned the sky a deep, dark blue, that Itama left early to greet his brothers when they returned from their mission. Madara had watched him leave, stayed to practice his stone-skipping over the river.

There had been a rustle in the forest behind him. He whirled around, throwing his senses out, a hand reaching for his kuani—to find empty forest.

He let out an unsteady breath and hoped sincerely that didn't happen again. If he ran a little faster than usual to the clan encampment, breathed easier when he saw the flicker of flames, no one could read his mind to judge him.

Upon his arrival at camp, Izuna ambushed him. It had become a pattern.

"Have a nice solo training session?"

Madara nodded absently. The noise had probably been a bird in the forest. An owl. Nothing for him to think about too hard.

"Actually, didn't you say you were meditating?"

That brought him to a halt. "What?"

"Why won't you tell me what's going on?" said Izuna, as they ducked between two tents. A pair of adults wandered by, looking slightly inebriated. "And since when can you shunshin?"

"It's—complicated," he said. "Nothing important. I'm just—"

"Don't say __training__," said Izuna. "I mean, yeah, you're training—you come back with bruised knuckles. But you're not just __training__."

"Yes, I am."

"I think you're meeting someone."

Madara's stomach did a flip. Somehow, he felt as though he was being accused of an affair. He would have to take care, if he wanted to fool his brother. Older people than him, wiser people than him, had failed to pull the wool over Izuna's eyes.

"I'm not."

He wanted to swallow his tongue. Or to cut it off.

"Right," said Izuna. "I'm going to catch you, you know that, right?"

"No," said Madara, with the grace of a crashing hot air balloon. "There's nothing to catch."

A burst of loud, drunken song erupted from the bonfire, making them jump. Most of the Uchiha children had been put to bed, though a few inquisitive, dark eyes were peering from tent flaps. Madara and Izuna retreated deeper into the encampment, where it was relatively quiet. There was a whistling snore coming from whom Madara was sure was one of the Elders.

"I won't tell Father," said Izuna, quietly to avoid waking anyone. "I-I know he's been upset with you. I can keep a secret."

He shone with plaintive honesty, and Madara was tempted to tell him. There was anger in him, even at his young age, but he wasn't the young man from the future. He wouldn't choose death over the healing touch of a Senju. It was those tenuous differences that Madara clung to when he only saw a corpse.

"It's just solo training," said Madara, and hoped his shame wasn't visible. "Nothing to worry about."

Izuna's disappointment shot another spear through Madara's chest.

__I'm sorry__, he almost said, but that would have been damning. When all other attempts to speak ended with his throat spasming, he gave up. He excused himself to bed and maintained it wasn't fleeing.

Telling Izuna the truth meant allowing him to come along on to Nakano River, meant him meeting Tobirama, his __killer__. And for all Madara was __trying__, he really was, there was no forgetting it.

He'd somehow imagined that after a few days—a week, a month—the memories would dull, if not disappear entirely__.__

They were instead harder to ignore, as though a real ghost was in his head, self-aware enough to become a nuisance. His was startled into waking nightmares of battle by the simplest things around him. A kettle shrieked and he was twenty, a spire of wood impaling him through the stomach. The very forest itself was an enemy from Hashirama's kekkei genkai, his bloodline turning the trees into something monstrous. He hadn't meant to. It was clear from the brief flashes of horrified eyes.

Pulling himself from those dazes was like wading through quicksand. He dragged himself from the ache in his chest, the old grief that never left.

He lay awake and stared at the tent roof. He was young enough that his shoulders and knees hadn't started paining him, so he couldn't blame his restlessness on that. At some point, Izuna retired to bed. He left the tent flaps slightly open, which would let critters in, and someone needed to shut it. Madara couldn't bring himself to move. He was slow and exhausted, and inexplicably awake.

He had flipped around in his bedroll no less than three times, before first light dawned in the sky. A black despair that rapidly morphed into fury at the sound of morning birds singing cheerfully propelled him out of bed. He'd half flung himself out of the camp before he knew what he was doing, since his body __evidently did not care about sleep__.

To make matters worse, Hashirama and his brothers were away on a squad mission. There was nothing to occupy him until they returned, besides spar sessions with his brother—who avoided him all morning with razor-thin smiles and passive excuses. First, he was helping Hikaku organize his father's maps. Next, he was terribly busy with the medics in their tent, crushing tinctures, and Madara wasn't invited, because apparently he was __short-tempered__, which was ridiculous.

Madara slammed out of the tent and realized that maybe there was some validity to that statement

He was __bored__. He asked Tajima for a squad and forgot his age for all of five minutes. Upon a harsh reminder, he spent the swath of the day until afternoon stewing in embarrassment.

Eventually, one of the Elders, an old woman called Hikari, whose name couldn't have been __less__ fitting unless her parents named her Chuckles-and-Giggles, lost patience with him. She grabbed him by the ear as he skulked past the Elders' tent, dragging him inside.

"__Work__," she snapped, shoving him down where Naori was, he realized with a growing sense of horror__, transcribing mission reports__.

In hindsight, he didn't want anything to do. He would much rather wander the encampment in abject boredom.

Naori, a slight girl with curly dark hair, looked amused.

"It's not so bad."

"I keep getting the kanji mixed up," he said, blotting one of the parchments with ink. He dragged a hand over his forehead, and then stopped.

"You've got some on your forehead now."

"Yeah, I was afraid of that."

She moved with the ruthless efficiency of someone who'd been transcribing letters for far too long. The kanji wrote themselves under her quill, smooth and neat. On the flip side, Madara's kanji were messy and scrawling. They kept spinning around the parchment, turning upside down, and he didn't realize he'd written most of them wrong—missing a few kanji altogether in the process—until he'd finished three reports.

"I'm done," he announced with the flourish of someone who'd put their signature on the magnum opus of their career. He dropped the quill before he snapped it in half, jumping to his feet. "I'm done. Finished. Granny Hiki can just __stuff it__—"

"Don't let her hear you calling her that," said Naori, but she didn't try to stop him as he left.

Sneaking into the branches over the camp to avoid Hikari, he swung his legs in the open air. The camp looked small from up high, miniature people crawling around, dark-haired heads, with the occasional bob of silver, gliding around smoothly under him. He would be in charge of them all, one day. It was hard to think about, even harder to believe, despite being Tajima's firstborn.

A weight appeared at his side, jarring him from his thoughts.

"So, are they nice?"

"What?" said Madara.

Izuna gave an impish grin. "Is your secret friend nice?"

Later, Madara would deny trying to kill his brother. The shrieks that rang from overhead, as they attempted to push each other off the branch, said otherwise. Most of the remaining wildlife in the area were probably scared off by the commotion.

They landed on the ground in a tussle of limbs and flyaway leaves.

"You want to spar?" said Izuna, on his back, arms outstretched. "I've got this new technique I've been practicing. I think it's ready now."

Madara thought about it and decided he wasn't willing to risk that giant mystery card Izuna had dropped.

"Actually, I've got some letters to get to."

Moving with lightning speed, Izuna dove at him.

"No way! You're not getting away from this," he said. "And really? Letters? You can barely read!"

The offense that crawled up Madara's throat was well-warranted, he thought. "I can __read just fine!__ My eyes—"

"Oh, your eyes are fine," said Izuna. "It's the brain they're connected to I wonder about sometimes."

Madara gaped at him. "When did you get so mean?"

"When did you get so slow?"

It took Madara a moment, but he noticed the absence of a weight on his thigh, and Izuna lifted a weapon's pouch. Madara's weapons pouch. The resulting chase landed them __both__ doing report transcriptions with Naori, while Hikari kept hawkish watch on them. Madara had a sinking feeling none of them would be getting away anytime soon, either.

He looked out the tent, at the forest and the Uchiha who were free of Hikari's observation. The quill was heavy in his hand. It was one of those moments that the memories in his head usually reared up to crash over him, but when he gazed out at the sky, all he could see was Hashirama's smile.

* * *

Madara was running to Nakano River.

He was afraid he wouldn't have time to make it to their next meeting, with Hikari sending him around the Uchiha Camp like an errand boy. The sight of him carting boxes of scrolls and parchments served, if nothing else, to temper the clan's ire with him. It was pity, more than anything; everyone had been made Hikari's personal servant at least once in their lifetime. He'd persevered and managed to clear an afternoon to meet them, and it put a spring in his step.

The forest thinned as he reached the river. He could see Hashirama through the sweeps of leaves and branches, and knew he'd spotted him too, when he started waving. All four Senju brothers were there, he noted with relief.

He started to mouth a greeting, as he stepped through the forest line—breaking off into a screech as the ground turned over him. The sky flipped around. He smacked the back of his head on a root.

Shouts rang across the river.

A line of ninja wire ran from the tree above him, wrapping around his angle tightly. His foot was already starting to tingle from the lack of blood flow.

Hashirama reached him first, brothers on his heels. Tobirama said something that was lost on Madara. It was probably the best. With all the blood rushing to his head, the last thing he needed was higher blood pressure.

"__Which one of you did this!?__"

He flailed in the air, reaching for his ankle. He went to grab a kunai—only to find his weapons pouch missing.

"We didn't," said Hashirama. "Here, let me help—"

"I don't __want your help__," said Madara. "And I don't believe you! This was definitely one of you—you idiot Senju—"

He'd might as well stepped on Hashirama's favorite pet beetle, going off the way he reacted. He seemed to forget Madara was the victim in their scenario. It only caused him to rage harder, snarling when he failed to untie the wire. Whoever tied it had done a very good job. A trap master, surely. One of the older shinobi in the area probably forgot about it. He'd like to know exactly the sort of animal they had hoped to catch, because it was overkill for a racoon. Madara couldn't get it undone and he had critical thinking skills.

He couldn't remember losing his weapons pouch, though.

The real culprit was not an older shinobi at all, revealed with a youthful cry from above them.

"HAH! I knew it! __I knew it__!"

Izuna jumped down, a kunai in each hand. He was shinobi enough not to fall over laughing, but it was a challenge, and Madara wondered if it was too late to hang himself. There was no way Izuna would ever forget that moment, standing triumphant over Madara, as he hung, utterly __undignified,__ from a tree.

"Now who are you people?" said Izuna, aiming one of the kunai at Hashirama. "I've seen your face before."

Madara was punching the air by Izuna's head. "Let me __down__ from here!"

"Oh, no, please," said Tobirama, who wasn't trying to hide his laughter. "This is the best thing I've seen, ever."

Hashirama, with all the steadfast loyalty of a Labrador, bounded over to Madara.

"Let me!"

"NO!"

"B-But you __just__ said—"

"__I don't want your help!__"

With a deeply wounded look, Hashirama dropped one kunai-wielding hand, though the other one was hovering by Madara's head to make sure he didn't knock it against another root. Entirely fed up with their behavior, Itama cut Madara free of the trap. Hashirama lunged to catch him and got a sandal in his face for the effort. He'd already gotten caught in a trap set up by his ten year old little brother. He didn't need Hashirama flexing that ridiculous hero complex on him, either.

Izuna glowered as they moved toward the river. He hadn't put the kunai away and his shoulders were curled, ready for battle. Madara realized, in a fleeting moment of panic, that he didn't know if Izuna had his sharingan yet or not. He'd put them by the river, probably hoping to have an advantage in a battle. He was one of the few water-type shinobi in the Uchiha Clan. It would have been an advantage worth having, if Tobirama wasn't also a water-type, and significantly better at it.

A knot on the back of Madara's head throbbed. He gave Izuna a resentful look as he snatched his weapons pouch back. The pickpocketing thing was becoming a bad habit.

They stopped at the shore. Kawarama was half-hidden behind Tobirama and Itama, though he was peering around them with curiosity. Hashirama stood at the forefront and seemed to have grasped the severity of the predicament.

"Are you Madara's brother?" he said.

"What's it to you?"

"It's just a question," said Hashirama. "He talks about you a lot!"

"What kind of things?" said Izuna, so friendly that he was definitely thinking of killing Hashirama.

Hashirama, going off how he started waving his hands, realized his mistake.

"Nothing about your abilities! He cares about you a lot." It was spoken as though it was something monumental, something that needed stitching across the sky. "That's the duty of big brothers. These are my little brothers—"

"Yeah, sure—what's your clan?"

"__Izuna__," Madara cut in sharply, stepping around him. "Look, we're… friends. We meet up here to just spar and __talk__. That's it."

"And what else are they?" said Izuna. "You didn't invite __me__, so they have to be from some big clan. An enemy?"

Again, let it be known that Madara was very bad at digging himself out of situations, unless it required brute force. He couldn't help a fleeting backwards look at Hashirama, who held it squarely. There was a lot of misplaced belief to be found there.

"They're—er—you see," said Madara, breaking out into a cold sweat. "They're, ah…"

Izuna gave him the most withering look known to mankind, entirely out of place on the face of a ten year old. Unexpectedly, it was Tobirama who broke the stalemate.

"What's it like, actually __living__ with him?"

"I don't know," said Izuna, before Madara could ask what the __hell__ they were talking about, "what's it like living with yours?"

"We could trade notes," said Tobirama. "Hashirama believed rabbits jumped over the room and left gifts of charity in his basket during the winter solstice until he was thirteen. He's fourteen now—I'm sure you can do the math in your head."

Hashirama covered his face with a groan.

Older brothers could lose sleep, give up food, and relive painful memories of the future for them, and that was how little brothers repaid the effort. Madara was glad he wouldn't have to fight his friends, that he wouldn't have to break off ties with Hashirama, but he really wanted to punt Izuna across Nakano River. The more the similarities between Izuna and Tobirama became apparent, the less sure Madara was that he __woke up__ that morning__. __Izuna was getting along with Tobirama even easier than he did with Itama and Kawarama, who didn't seem to know what to make of him. __Tobirama__—his future killer.

Kawarama warmed up the quickest. He was already running numbers and giving Izuna a Nakano Squad designation before they had chosen a spot to sit. It was a good thing, because Madara couldn't seem to find a single word. He stuck a little closer to Hashirama, and blamed it on the countless meetings he'd endured in that future, where the politicians had stared at him with cold, snake-like eyes. He'd been lost there, too; confident enough not to waver, yet wavering enough that he needed Hashirama at his side.

He was walking on eggshells through the entire afternoon. As the evening wore on and dusk spread into the sky, they had to leave before their families got suspicious. Izuna didn't speak for a good part of the journey back, until they reached the outskirts of the encampment. They were still out of earshot, but he kept his voice down.

"They're Senju, aren't they?"

Madara carefully did not flinch.

"They're good," he said.

"Itama's quick with shogi," said Izuna. He fiddled with the flap of his weapons pouch, not quite meeting Madara's eyes. "I don't… blame you. Wanting to reach out to people—I don't blame you."

Equally as awkward, Madara nodded.

"Yeah," he said, in a stunning contribution to their conversation.

Avoiding the patrol around the encampment, they slipped back into the rows of tents. There were raised voices coming from the clan head tent. While that wasn't anything out of the ordinary, the growing crowd of Uchiha, armed to teeth, grabbed Madara's attention. People moved aside for him. If there was one benefit to being the firstborn of the Clan Head, it was that it owed him a __modicum__ of respect. Just a little, though. Mostly they were still angry about the Hagoromo.

Inside the clan head tent, Tajima was in the middle of a heated argument with the Elders. Killing intent was thick enough to cut. Chakra had curled the parchment on the table up. Madara hadn't seen an argument so intense since the time Tajima wanted to do a full-frontal assault on the Senju and had to be talked down. It was shortly after Madara's youngest brothers were killed.

"What's going on?" said Izuna.

Madara really wished he hadn't asked. The argument came to an abrupt halt that left the air ringing.

"There are farmhouses within a day's running distance," said Tajima through gritted teeth. "We could have food and supplies to last us the winter."

"At the price of being made __bandits__," said Hikari, her aged voice crackling. Her hands were steady on her cane. "You would have the __world__ against us, Tajima-sama!"

"We __will not survive the winter at this rate!__"

He went three paces, then whirled to Madara and Izuna. Madara moved in front of Izuna on reflex, but Tajima's sharigan-red eyes were bearing down on Madara. His face was carved from bone, contrasting a smile that meant whatever happened next was supposed to be a gift, and Madara wasn't going to like it.

"You were asking for a squad," he said, crowding him, the air turning thick and impossible to breathe. "You have one."

Madara mouthed __What?__ but nothing came out.

"Take four others with you," said Tajima. "Farmhouses in the area have plenty of supplies to last the winter. We need them."

"We're… raiding?" said Madara. A white noise was filling his head. He was talking through a long tunnel in his ears. "We can't—"

"You were eager to kill allies not weeks past," said Tajima in genuine confusion. "Why are you hesitating at hapless civilians?"

The question __What is wrong with you?__ went unsaid, but hung there, clearly intended.

"They're just people," said Madara. He couldn't remember if he had a conversation like that one. It could have been something new, caused by his changes. He hoped not. He hoped he hadn't changed things, only for them to get even __worse__. "Aren't there other ways?"

"Not if we want to avoid casualties," said Tajima.

"We could get a squad through to Sora-ku," said Hokibo, whose dark eyes were just visible through his heavy crows feet. His hair was thin and gray.

"We'll need a loan to pay them," said Tajima, in the tone of one who'd had that conversation many times. "__Another__ loan."

"Which can be done," said Hikari.

"We're already in enough debt. Madara—"

"Attacking civilians is out of the question," said Madara bluntly.

Izuna piped up from behind Madara, "We'd might as well be highwaymen, Father."

Tajima finally spared his second son a look. Immediately, the attention of every person in the room fell on Izuna. Madara would have blocked him from it, were he not sure Izuna would resent him for it.

"What is next, Tajima-sama?" said Hikari. "Will we deal in people? Distribute drugs? There is a line, even for survival—we must know when to draw it."

A weight fell off Madara's shoulders, as though gravity had stopped pressing down on him. It was only then he realized how much killing intent Tajima was leaking.

Tajima gathered his dignity around him like a cloak, shoulders going stiff, and took his place behind the desk. It was a barrier, a shield from everything he could not control. __A weakness__, said something small and cruel in Madara's head, the part of him that nearly destroyed the world. He remembered why he did away with the desk.

"Very well," said Tajima. "Negotiators will need to be sent out to Sora-ku—and quickly. We don't have long before winter sets in."


	4. A Question of Moral Fiber

**Chapter Four**

**A Question of Moral Fiber**

One of the benefits of living in a forest dominated primarily by pines was that they never lost their needles. They turned a rusty orange, thinned out a little, but provided cover even when all other trees had gone spindly and gray.

The winters in the grasslands had been harsh, cold enough to bite into bone and leave a person breathless, but they uniform in their predictability. The Uchiha spent many years there and, while they had originated from central Fire Country, like many of the great clans, it had been a very long time since they weathered a full central winter. Storms swept through that crackled with lightning, but left the ground coated in a silvery sheen of ice. Snow swept up against the sides of trees.

Inspired by the natural ice wall that formed of it, the Uchiha took to packing up the snow around the encampment. Under the void-like black sky at night, it did little to preserve their warmth, but it helped.

Madara was fascinated by snow. It had rarely snowed in the grasslands, where only the occasional ice storm passed through, and it was the first time he'd sunk ankle deep into something that wasn't mud, or a battlefield of gore. Puffs of snow flurried around him as he shook branches, it caught in his eyelashes. It made even the murkiest gray day seem brighter.

He liked snow, he decided. That was until Izuna balled up a chunk of it and stuck it down his yukata.

The tenuous calm, in the wake of a shipment of supplies from Sora-ku, was shaken to its core by the first rattling cough to echo through the night.

It happened in mere days. As though it was a match struck in a droughted forest, illness swept through the Uchiha Clan.

Madara and Izuna stood at the outskirts of camp, as the ill were carried into a quarantined section. Medic-nin, the only three they had left, were zipping around, handkerchiefs around their faces. Despite their best efforts to keep the sickness contained, the air managed to feel thick with it. Each breath taken within the snowy encampment walls felt like a risk. They did their best to keep the clan clean and hygienic, melting snow with fire jutsu and boiling their water, but even that could only do so much.

Stumbling people with drawn, ashen faces and deep shadows under their eyes became a normal sight. Their coughs were heavy and shook their whole body. The elderly held on by their fingertips, each night a test of their willpower. The children were worse. They lay motionless, cheeks flushed with fevers, eyes grayed and staring out into something else entirely. Most of the time, their words were listless and nonsensical, as though they were already floating away, and Madara feared for them.

Frequent trips to Nakano River had become one of Madara and Izuna's only reprieves, as more and more of their clansmen fell ill.

"We keep a close eye on supply stocks," said Hashirama during one such meeting, "but they won't notice if a little goes missing. Just take a little, __please__."

Madara turned him down. However, while the others were occupied watching Tobirama try to freeze the river all the way through, he pulled Hashirama aside.

He didn't even have to finish asking his question. Hashirama pressed a small satchel into his hands.

"For your brother, right?" he said. "Use a little for yourself, too. You can't protect your clan if you're dead, yeah?"

The warmth from Hashirama's fingers lingered in Madara's hands. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and stowed the satchel away. If Izuna noticed how his broth wasn't so thin, the taste a little stronger, he made no comment. He kept the rest of the supply stashed away, a slight weight that grew heavier with every Uchiha who passed from illness.

Even though it had only been a handful of months in earnest since his first meeting with Hashirama, they were all steadily changing. Hashirama's dark brown hair was straggling down his shoulders. Itama had taken to braiding the silver half of his hair, while Kawarama was making noises about undercuts that were swiftly shot down by his older brothers. It was possibly the most unimportant thing they could have bickered about, and Madara soaked up the normalcy like a sponge.

He was growing unkempt, evidenced by the way Izuna chased him up a tree with hair scissors. If there was one thing from the future Madara wanted to keep, it was his mane of hair, and he would be __damned__ if he let someone cut it all off.

"Just a trim!"

"__NO!__"

"Did you __hiss__ at me!?"

They had barreled into camp to find three of the younger Uchiha in a close circle, heads bumping together, deep in conversation. Last time something like that happened, it was Madara's father discussing raids, and while he doubted it was the same case—they were sixteen at the oldest—he drew closer.

It was Naori and two others boys. Madara recognized one of them as Hikaku, youthful face offset by the sleepless lines under his eyes. His brown hair was pulled into a haphazard tail on his head. The other boy was also familiar, but Madara couldn't put a name to his face. He looked similar enough to Hikaku to be his brother, sharing the exhausted look and air of hopelessness.

"Did something happen?" said Madara, already dreading the answer.

"Our Father is sick," said Hikaku, tremoring as though he couldn't quite draw in enough breath. His hands were tangled in his obi. "It's not looking like he'll…"

The other boy took over when Hikaku's voice faltered. "He's getting weaker and his fever came back. The medics are saying he probably won't last the night."

While hearing another Uchiha was going to succumb wasn't a surprise, Hikaku and his brother's strained attempts at staying composed, keeping themselves stitched together by conscious effort, was hard to watch. It was even harder, knowing exactly how they felt, but at a loss for what to do about it.

"He might pull through yet," said Naori, resting a slender hand on Hikaku's shoulder. They were best friends, had been since they were toddlers.

The other boy—his name was Naka, Madara remembered finally, and wanted to smack his forehead—gave a wordless nod. Neither brother seemed willing to hope.

When everyone fell asleep, barring the patrols, who shivered in the trees, and a few restless souls poking at the embers of the bonfire, Madara stole out of his bedroll. The quarantined part of the encampment was always full of coughs and sniffles, even in the dead of night. Indecision froze him outside one of the tents, hands gripping Hashirama's satchel. There wasn't much left and no guarantee would do anything to help. He was probably wasting it, but then he thought of Hikaku and Naka's faces and pushed through the flap.

Hikaku and Naka's father was awake. He was sitting up, hands folded in his lap, all too calm for a dying man. When he spotted Madara standing in the doorway, he frowned.

"What are you doing here? You'll catch your death, Madara. Go back to bed."

Ignoring the man's request, Madara tugged at the satchel straps. There was no tea laid out for the man to drink, or stew for him to sip on through the night.

"I have—"

"Save it for you brother," said the dying man. "My time is coming, as it comes for us all."

The man was going to let death take him. A deep, profound sympathy coursed through Madara, as though a hand had stirred up a current inside him that went against his every other flow. It was that __other__, and it understood. __He__ understood.

"Are you sure?" said Madara. "You'll die."

"One little cup of tea isn't going to save me," the old man laughed, a last burst of life within him. "Go off to bed now—and Madara?" He added, as Madara reached the tent flaps. "Take care of the clan, when it's your time."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Madara nodded. He would do his best. __His best was never enough__.

He didn't return to the tent. The thought of the enclosed and dark walls was enough to choke him, so he took a flying leap into the branches. One of the patrols caught sight of him, shot him a confused look, but didn't stop him. They'd become used to him leaving at random times. Questions would be asked and answers would have to be given eventually, but Madara took advantage of the freedom while he could afford it.

Nighttime always seemed to turn the world into something different. Trees changed, shaped by the shadows, knots from fallen branches turning into leering faces. A flutter of soft wings over him alerted him to the presence of an owl. He had imagined, at one point, the birds looked after him, ever vigilant winged guardians picking out the dangers he could not see himself. It had been a nice whimsy, but as he stood in the center of an entirely silent, dark forest, he was certain he was alone.

It was cold enough that his breath fogged the air in small puffs. Moonlight glittered off the rapids of Nakano River, the one place he was clearheaded. Despite the shivers in his body, he settled down on one of the boulders. They'd long since traded their sunbaked warmth for the radiating chill of winter.

He was practicing a chakra-molding exercise to extend his reserves, so he sensed Hashirama's arrival before he was visible through the trees. Morning had seemed to roll around quickly, pink and gold silhouetting the branches. The sun was dim and provided little warmth.

Most of Hashirama's greetings were exuberant, but something seemed to have alarmed him, as Madara didn't have time to turn before he'd cried out, "What are you doing?"

"What are you on about, now?" he said, concentration thoroughly broken.

Hashirama stomped around him—really stomped, hands on his hips, reminding Madara of an infuriated Elder—and pointed down at him.

"Is that __all__ you're wearing? A yukata?" he said, pulling off one of the three haori he had layered on him.

Madara realized with a flash of embarrassment what he was going to do, but was too late to stop him draping the haori over his head. The heat was almost uncomfortably comfortable, sinking into his bones. Taking it off wasn't even an option. He wrapped it around his shoulders tightly and glared balefully up at Hashirama—who seemed to find it __very__ funny.

Dodging a kick, Hashirama dropped onto the shore by him. For a moment, the air was filled with only the sounds of the river flowing, creaking patches of flimsy ice, and the morning birds. A squirrel rustled somewhere behind them.

"It's been awhile, huh?"

Madara lifted his head off his arms. "What?"

"Y'know," said Hashirama. "Since we've just had the place to ourselves. Er—not that I don't like having more people here, of course!" He broke off with a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "We haven't talked about the future much."

Madara stared into the river, as though he could search out another conversation topic in its depths. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the future.

"I suppose we haven't."

Even if everything worked out and Hashirama got his village and the other nations didn't spark a world war—what happened next? In the decades after they were dead, the shadows that crept into even the most secure systems would still threaten them.

"Is something wrong?" Hashirama's good cheer and faded into worry. "Did Izuna get sick?"

"Nothing like that," said Madara. "Nothing's wrong."

"You sure? I don't think I've ever see you so lost in thought."

"__Yes__," said Madara. "I'm sure."

Hashirama let out a quiet __huh__ that called Madara out on every inch of his pretending. "If you say so."

The peace lasted until Hashirama started scooting into Madara's personal space, giving pathetic, melodramatic shivers. He gave Madara wounded-puppy eyes when he shifted away, then moved closer. It was that first day at the shore all over again, when he invited his brothers without any warning. Madara wanted to toss him over the river with every bit of vehemence he felt back then. He pushed—Hashirama shoved back—he aimed a kick at Hashirama's face and that was an invitation for all-out war.

A good hour later, they dropped to the ground, laughing breathlessly. There was a spattering of brand new bruises up Madara's arms, along with a mark on Hashirama's face that was turning out to be quite the shiner.

"Are you ready to tell me what's bothering you now?" said Hashirama, head tilted back so he could look at Madara.

Madara threw a rock at him halfheartedly. "There's this… boy."

Hashirama froze halfway through readjusting his two haori.

"A boy?"

"Yeah. He's an idiot and won't leave me alone."

"Harassing you?" said Hashirama, very seriously. "Do you want to arrange an accident?"

Madara rolled to his haunches by the riverbed and carefully did not smile.

"Oh, that would be wonderful," he said, motioning for Hashirama to come closer, who did so without second thought, mirroring Madara in a crouch. "You see, he keeps asking me annoying questions and following me around. I was thinking a good dunk in the Nakano might teach him a lesson."

Hashirama frowned. "Wait—"

Madara lashed out with quicksilver speed and shoved him over—into the frigid waters of Nakano River.

His screech echoed through the valley. Madara doubled over, gasping for breath, though he wasn't __quite__ cruel enough to leave Hashirama in sopping wet clothing. He'd snagged the haori, too.

"I'm never worrying about you again," said Hashirama, curled up in a ball on the shore not a heartbeat later. "You're so mean."

Madara couldn't quite look at him without laughing, yet, so he just dropped the two haori over his head and called it a day.

* * *

There were things that had a way of carving out a hole in the world. Everything and everyone had a place they belonged, a place they didn't belong. It could have been Madara was more sociable than he was in the past, or that Hikaku wasn't supposed to be standing a mile outside of camp, white as the snow he staggered through, as if drunk.

Madara already knew what happened, even before Hikaku turned a red and blotchy face to him, drawing in a deep breath that broke into a strangled sob.

"He died," said Hikaku, holding onto the ends of his poise with the desperation of a man drowning. "In his sleep—my brother is—he's—"

Madara didn't learn what Naka was, as Hikaku seemed to lose the ability to speak. He led Hikaku back to camp with a ginger hand. He couldn't quite look Hikaku in the eyes, wondered if he'd given the dying man those herbs, regardless of what he wanted, if would have survived. Maybe, if he had tried a little harder. Maybe, if he hadn't reacted so soon and killed those Hagoromo, if they had the supplies to fight back the winter.

He would never regret saving Itama and Kawarama, but his mind wouldn't stop torturing him with different scenarios, if there hadn't been another way to resolve that situation.

A funeral pyre was built outside the encampment, while the bonfire was stoked higher. Sparks and embers flew into a dusky sky, curls of fire wrapped around the body of Hikaku and Naka's father. Hikaku stood by Naori, curled into her shoulder. A handful of healthy Uchiha who weren't tending to the sick, on patrol, or standing in the supply tent, taking stock of what they didn't have and what they needed—which were all the same things—were standing scattered around the pyre.

Many of the Uchiha liked to believe their souls were released to the pureland on their funeral pyre. Had they access to a lake, or a river that wasn't bordering enemy territory, they would have built a ship. The family of the fallen would send out their strongest fire jutsu, burning the ship as it sailed away with the body of their loved one. Landlocked as they were, they had to make do with a pyre.

While food was passed around, Madara dumped a part of his share into Izuna's bowl, ignoring the weak protest it earned. Throughout the entire funeral, one thing had stuck out in his mind. As in life, as in grief, it was the glaring absences that were felt the keenest.

Naka was nowhere to be seen.

The loss of loved ones was something Madara understood better than most.

Everyone had lost someone, but there was a difference between loneliness and standing at the precipice of being truly __alone__. He had stood at that precipice, tipped himself off the edge, and then blamed the people around him for letting him fall. __Maybe__ if someone had reached out in friendship instead of fear. __Maybe__ if Hashirama had tried to catch him—or hadn't he? Sometimes Madara doubted his own memory. In the end, he was left with his own decisions.

Maybe, though, if he could reach out to one person in their time of need. Despair was no easy storm to weather. It was an ugliness that transformed the kindest, most beautiful person into something twisted and awful.

There was a deliberate, hushed silence in the quarantined tents. A shadow of death seemed to have draped them, as though they were all waiting, every one of them certain they were next. He wasn't surprised to see candlelight in Naka's father's old tent.

He was even less surprised to find Naka doubled over on the tatami mats, as though fatally wounded.

Words were not his forte. He couldn't take paragraphs and turn them into a future worth living. If even a presence was enough—

"What are you doing here?" rasped Naka, voice cut from sandpaper.

Madara gave the tent a once over. Most of Naka's father's affects had been taken out already.

"I was checking," he said, shifting his bowl from one hand to another. Then, he set the bowl on the ground. "Eat. I'm sure your body is hungry, if you aren't."

Naka lifted his head from his hands, hair falling around his face. It made him look feral. His eyes were rubbed raw and his face was tear-stained, but he kept his composure better than Hikaku had.

"I don't want to talk to you."

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, stinging a little, if not hurting entirely.

"I'll leave, then."

"Good," said Naka, a hair short of vindictive, and Madara almost flinched.

He joined the others around the bonfire and upended the rest of his meal into Izuna's bowl, while he was distracted, and went to bed hungry.

It would be the first of many nights that he went to bed hungry, as supplies dwindled even further, attempts at creating an artificial greenhouse failed, and Tajima sent squads out to neighboring settlements to try and barter for food. __Don't beg__, went unsaid, but clearly heard, in his tone as he gave the squads their orders. Madara did his best to make sure Izuna ate enough, if not quite having a full stomach. His brother wasn't oblivious enough not to notice if he consistently got good serving sizes.

On one peach colored morning, good news was delivered. They got a surprise tip of a nearby town having a large supply of stored goods from the summer. For the first time in a very long while, smiles broke out on the starved, gaunt faces of the Uchiha.

Most of the able-bodied Uchiha had already been sent out on squads to neighboring settlements, so Madara volunteered himself for the trip. With their ranks growing thin, he opted go alone. It wasn't the brightest of his plans, and Izuna tore into him for it—"What is up with this new __hero__ complex, or whatever? It's annoying, stop it."—and ended up stomping away to set trees on fire.

Hikaku was still wan and gray from mourning, but also asked to accompany him. Madara almost accepted the offer, but that would have meant slighting Izuna doubly, and he wasn't willing to paint that kind of target on his back. It wasn't arrogance to claim he was one of the strongest the Uchiha had to offer, and the clan needed to rest until they had the supplies to recuperate.

He stocked up on the weapons they had left that weren't completely dulled or rusted, snagged a couple rounds of ninja wire—it was useful in a pinch—and layered his mantle with a yukata. It looked terribly unconventional and a part of him that actually cared about fashion quailed. His chakra reserves weren't quite vast enough for him to burn it all keeping himself warm, so he had to make do.

Izuna stopped him just outside the forest line, where it opened into rolling mountainsides.

"At least wait until tomorrow," he said. "There's a storm coming, aniki. You don't want to get caught in it."

"And so you can plant a tracking seal on me?" said Madara, smiling in dry amusement at Izuna's faint chagrin. "You worry too much. I'll be home in no time."

He ruffled Izuna's hair, something that was always met with disgust. He wasn't left wanting with Izuna's reaction, but it was forced. Izuna was worried.

The feeling of eyes on his back didn't leave until he had rounded a mountain and was out of sight. Even then, he kept his senses extended, in case Izuna tried to follow. He didn't, and it was for the better. The clan needed every able hand available.

Grasses crunched under Madara's feet, coated in a sheen of ice. In the summer, they would reach his knees, and leave terrible inching sores on him. They were different from the grasslands up north. He tried to keep as close to cover as possible, sticking to patches of short trees and winding his way across the tundra-like terrain. As the day progressed, the sky brewed dark gray clouds, and Madara started to fear the legitimacy of Izuna's talk of storms. He didn't remember Izuna being particularly interested in weather patterns, or being in tuned to them.

A few stray flakes of snow quickly became a torrent. Wind picked up, unabated by trees or valleys, and Madara crashed into the settlement as the storm raged in full. He ducked into the nearest building, which he sincerely hoped wasn't a home, because he had to forcibly shove through the door.

Silvery gales of wind howled through the door as he jumped through. He slammed it shut behind him—and immediately felt eyes on him. Many eyes. Some were glaring. Others looked curious.

There was a counter set up on the one side and a large woman was polishing a glass. Madara reveled in the moment, despite himself, because it was just like every book he'd managed to get his hands on. The bartender really __did__ polish glasses all day long.

"Are you lost, son?" said the bartender, setting the glass aside. It was probably a keepsake of some kind, passed down from bartender to bartender. One would never know.

Madara crossed to the counter, trying not to look fourteen. He cleared his throat. "I'm looking for supplies. Enough to feed a—a very large family."

He couldn't say __clan__. They would want to know __which__ clan, because civilians were particular about who they supported like that, and the Uchiha Clan had very few friends.

"A family, hmm?" said the woman. She looked down at him with dark brown eyes. Ginger hair was pulled back in a braided ponytail on her head. "Shinobi?"

"No," said Madara, very unconvincingly.

She peered over the bar. "Is that a weapons pouch?"

"Civilians carry them, too."

Her smile was nothing short of catlike. "Only shinobi call us civilians."

Madara wracked his brain for something that didn't reveal him as a shinobi. "What do civilians call themselves, then?" his mouth said instead.

"The folk. People 'round the area," she said, listing them off her fingers. "That guy down the street. Anything but civilians, really."

"Oh," he said, at a loss.

She crossed her arms over her chest, even as her painted lips softened into a smile.

"Why don't you pull up a seat? It had to be a hell of a journey getting here," she said. "You look like you could use a good meal."

"That's not—you don't have to," said Madara, even as his stomach gnawed at him. He was desperately hungry, even before the daylong trek to the settlement. "I really need to feed my cl—my family."

"You aren't fooling anyone, son," she said. "You're a clan child. Take a seat and eat up, then we'll talk about supplies."

Arguing served to make her conveniently deaf, so Madara resigned himself to a warm meal while his clan went hungry. He just about forgot the clan entirely the moment he caught the first whiff of the food, tender sweetmeats and rice and vegetables. The aromas mixed into something heavenly. One bite was all it took to abolish any lingering guilt. He couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed something so delicious. Before he knew it, he'd finished the bowl and another one was shoved in his face.

Now, many of the people in the settlement had seen shinobi. They occasionally stopped through town, upturned a ramen stand or two, and made a beeline for the bar to get utterly plastered. It was one of the first times they'd seen a shinobi __child__, regardless of Madara's extra decades of memories kicking around in his head. For all intents and purposes, he was a fourteen year old boy—even if he was a fourteen year old boy capable of murdering several dozen people at once, on his own.

Reactions to children and teenagers varied from abject terror to fondness, but most of the people in the room had formed a pitying sort of amusement. That was why, when the bartender, whose name was Reon, offered Madara seconds and thirds, no one complained that it was free.

If one could look a starving boy in the face and demand that he paid for his meal, they needed to inspect their moral fiber, as it had probably grown a rather nasty fungus at some point.

"Feeling better?" said Reon the bartender.

Madara was buzzing to the tips of his fingers with energy he hadn't felt in ages.

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I don't know how to repay you—"

"Don't worry about it, son," she said, somehow managing to make Madara feel as though he'd been wrapped in a warm blanket. He didn't think anyone had ever called him __son__, in one life or another. On one hand, he wanted to begrudge it, because he was not a __child__. On the other hand—he rather liked it.

The memories weren't screaming at him, so he imagined they liked it, too.

"We can discuss payment later, hmm?" she said, giving a wink. "Come along—I've got some stock in the back. Not much, granted, but it should last your family through the storm."

She cut across the room, waving at another man to take the bar, and led him down a hall. Boxes lined the walls, as though the place was going through a renovation. With as rundown as the bar as a whole appeared, he wondered where she got the money to do a renovation.

"You're from one of them big clans, aren't you?" she said, ramming her shoulder into another door. It took a few tries to get opened. "This old place, I swear…"

They had arrived in a wide room. A pair of broad double doors opened up to the back, probably for letting in caravans of supplies. Barrels lined the walls, the ground covered in straw and dirt. Fresh tracks ran from the doors, meaning she'd probably had a delivery recently.

"How could you tell I'm a shinobi?" said Madara. "Besides the weapons pouch."

If he could further weed out his tells, that would be an advantage. Civilians shouldn't have been able to root him out so quickly.

"You see a lot, tending a bar so close to central Fire Country," she said. "You don't usually see children out in a storm by themselves, especially when they're armed to the teeth."

Her smile was sympathetic.

"It really was the weapons pouch, son."

She startled rifling through one of the barrels.

"But really, out curiosity—what clan?"

Madara crossed his arms, though he wasn't quite sure why. "It's not really safe to say."

She squinted at him over her shoulder.

"You're not one of the Kaguya are you?"

Just the sound of their name was enough to send chills down Madara's spine. Tall and built like ox, one Kaguya was enough to overpower half a dozen average shinobi.

"Are there a lot of them around here?" he asked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer.

"They drop around for drinks sometimes."

That was all it took for him to want to be anywhere else. He could see corpses hung on stakes around a wide compound, made to weaken the resolve of their enemies. Skulls were ornaments to them, stuck at the top of tall ramparts. They thrived off battle, loved every second of it. A few of the Uchiha who had had unfortunate run-ins with them hesitated to even speak their name, as though they could be summoned by words alone.

He heard shinobi in every creak and groan of the structure. It was only the wind outside. The twitch of Reon's lantern sent the shadows dancing. His mind was, as ever, putting motion to every imagined thing he didn't want in the dark corners.

Reon straightened up, a bundle in her arms. "Here we are—"

The door slammed open, splinters flying—she shrieked, arms flying to protect herself.

Madara spun kunai from his pouches around his fingers, falling into a defensive stance in front of her. Unconsciously, his sharingan spun to life in his eyes, picking out every microexpression in the shinobi's faces as they stepped through the doors. There were five of them, more than enough for him to take on.

The other shinobi had hesitated at the sight of his sharingan, and he smiled. They knew they were outmatched.

He spared her quickest backwards glance to ensure she wasn't injured.

She gave a splutter. "Uchiha? You're an Uchiha?"

It caught him off-footed.

"That's not—"

"And what have I said about breaking down my doors?" she bellowed at the men, shaking her fist.

A stone sank, deep and heavy, in Madara's gut. He shifted sideways, so she wasn't at his back.

"You know them?" He recognized three of them as Hagoromo clansmen. The other two didn't appear to be shinobi, clad in softer cloths and leathers for traveling. "They're bad news, lady."

There was no reply, as the Hagoromo lifted a hand in a signal—Madara tensed, waiting for the first attack, eyes trained solidly on them. He was outnumbered five to one and protecting a civilian. That meant he needed to get the fight away from the bar. He was also limited in terms of jutsu, as the place was filled with bales of hay, and he didn't want to burn the place. It wouldn't do well for an Uchiha to destroy the establishment of one of the few people friendly to them.

He shifted the kunai into a reverse grip, coiled his leg to lunge—

A body dropped in front of him. He aborted the lunge, stumbling on the ball of his foot, imbalanced.

With the sharingan, he knew exactly what had landed in front of him, even before his mind processed it. Even after his mind processed it, he wasn't sure he wanted to. In fact, he didn't want to see it at all.

The man was a behemoth. Bone-white hair cascaded down his back. He wore a simple yukata, a necklace strung with teeth hanging around neck. They were human teeth.

Another thud sounded to his left. Then another, to his right—and another—five, ten, then fifteen. Madara sucked in short breaths. His hands were sweating. He didn't blink.

Unbelievably, Reon pushed right by him and marched up to the towering man who was most definitely a member of the Kaguya Clan.

"You didn't tell me he was an __Uchiha!__"

He didn't bother with an answer. Dark green eyes were settled on Madara.

A thousand stories crowded themselves around Madara's head. Tales of torture, days strung out to the ravens to pluck their eyes out and vultures to feast on their livers. Some even claimed the Kaguya __ate__ people. There were cages and chains and a barbaric love of agony.

"Who are you?" said Madara to the bartender. "Why are you—"

She gave another pitying look, and he realized why she'd treated him so nicely.

"Oh, son. You're a shinobi, you should know better than to trust the first stranger to treat you like a human being."

As stated, if one could look a starving boy in the eyes want to discuss payment for his second meal, then they were of exceedingly poor moral fiber.


	5. The Ache in His Bones

**Chapter Five**

**The Ache in His Bones**

Madara was the kind of person who saw the impossible odds, recognized them as impossible, and challenged them anyway.

Faced with fifteen of the most terrifying shinobi known to the Uchiha Clan at that time, along with three other peons and two others, one of whom looked—terrifyingly enough—like an Uzumaki, the logical solution would have been to run away. Logic had formed a drinking party with fate and common sense awhile ago hadn't been spotted since anywhere near Madara.

If he plowed them over with a fire jutsu and didn't stop running until he reached the forest again, there was a chance he could pull it off. The chance was __slim__ and for that reason, he discarded the plan before he'd even fully mapped it out.

There was no guarantee he could outrun them. The Kaguya had lived on the tundra for much longer than Madara and knew the terrain. Several of them were tall and willowy, all sinewy muscle and looked fast. They had the gleaming-eyed look a wild dog waiting for something to move, so they could chase it.

In a fight of strength, he would crush them—__if he had access to the mangekyou__.

For all the memories had a heart that spilled over into his with hurt and regret, it was like reading the pages off a book. Madara was fourteen years old. He was a strong shinobi, but he hadn't summoned one meteor after another. He hadn't defiled his friend's legacy by using his biological cells to harm his own blood. Most of all, he hadn't tried to put the world into an illusion that would degenerate them into pasty numb-brained monsters.

He had a sharingan and a handful of fire jutsu and that was __it__. The exercises to increase chakra reserves took __time__ and he'd only started in earnest a few weeks ago. There was a disconnect between what he mind said his feet were doing, and where he feet actually __were__.

Meanwhile, the Kaguya were fifteen strong, their muscles had muscles, and their idea of __fun__ probably included dismemberment. To put it bluntly, he was __fucked__.

So, naturally, he threw a kunai at one of the Hagoromo—hoping to clear out the small-fry—formed his hands into a fire jutsu seal, and fate tipped back another shot of whisky.

The Kaguya jumped around him—two up to the ceiling above him, three behind him, while the largest didn't so much as budge. He blew out a wall of flames that forced the Kaguya to move, leaping to the side, while the fire swept over the ground and caught on the scattered straw.

Madara whirled in time to meet a sword with his kunai—there was a blur movement to his left, another kunai, and he was just quick enough to deflect it. He arched backwards, kicking his leg high—there was a sharp __crack__ as his sandal met the Kaguya's chin.

Despite the nigh hopelessness of the situation, he allowed himself a small grin—and then whirled for the door.

He snatched up a satchel full of what he hoped was food—anything was better than nothing, Tajima would understand, after he explained what happened—

A grip solid as steel wound around his waist like a python. It dug into his stomach and lifted him off his feet, dragged him back kicking and flailing. The satchel landed back on the ground, where one of the Kaguya swooped to pick it up.

It was pale as moonlight, coated in something slickly pink, vertebrae after interlocked vertebrae. The Kaguya Clan kekkei genkai, the shikotsumyaku, gave them the ability to take their own skeletal structure and wield it. The bones were tempered until they were unbreaking.

A spinal cord had erupted from the largest Kaguya's back, wielded in the way one would use a whip, and reeled Madara in like a prized fish. A cold hand pushed his dark fringe out of his eyes.

"Uchiha, indeed. This changes things."

Madara was swiping a kunai at the man's face before he could another word edgewise.

The Kaguya retaliated by shoving his face into the ground and holding him there, one knee against his back, the other tearing his hair out of his face again.

"Let me see your eyes."

It was reflex more than stubbornness that had Madara squeezing his eyes shut. There wasn't much in the world an Uchiha feared more than someone holding them down and asking to __take a look__ at their eyes.

A long, thin bone was pried under his left eyelid. "You can either open them, or I force them open. I highly suspect obedience will result in less injury to your person."

Even if he wanted to open his eyes, it wouldn't have been possible. The beat of his heart had overtaken any rational thought.

The needle-like bones were every bit as unforgiving as promised. Madara yelped and whined, thrashed out, which only resulted in an impatient hand grabbing his wrist and __twisting__.

"A fully developed sharingan," said the Kaguya around Madara's cry of pain. He shoved Madara's head down when he tried to bite the fingers grasping at his face. "And a willful one, I see!"

"Nikao," said the Uzumaki-looking traveler, "we had an agreement."

Kaguya Nikao looked up from his prisoner, and that was all Madara needed to writhe out from under him, lashing out with another kick at his face. He snatched his fallen kunai from the ground and plunged it at the Kaguya's neck.

Only, instead of sinking into flesh and spilling blood, spidery bones wrapped around Nikao's neck like a secondary ribcage. The kunai glanced off the neck-ribs, the shock of the rebound sending it flying from Madara's grip, and he was slammed back to the ground as though it never happened.

"If you're talking about the one where you forgot to mention our query was an Uchiha," said Nikao, "you may leave with your lives."

It was spoken as though it was a very large allowance. Considering the reputation of the Kaguya Clan, it probably was.

Madara tried to trigger a shunshin, but it failed. He fought wildly as a rabid cat and clawed at the Kaguya's face when he drew closer.

"Tenacity!" he boomed with a laugh, lifting Madara up even higher. "Do you want to know why your shunshin isn't working?"

Madara spat in his face, aimed a kick at his teeth.

"Very well, then!"

The other Kaguya were starting to laugh at his struggles. One of the taller ones nudged the slender one, a sliver of a smirk on his narrow features.

"Perhaps the Uchiha are not grasping strays huddling for warmth after all!" said the man, whose one volume seemed to be __loud__. "Are they all like you?"

The redheaded traveler, having evidently grown impatient, started forward. "I __said__ we had an—"

His mouth was still moving, even as his head was severed from his body.

Another Kaguya moved, fast enough that only a sharingan could have kept up, and snapped the neck of the other. Before the Hagoromo could so much as think about retreating, kunai were driven through their throats and out the back of their necks. They were dead before their bodies hit the ground.

There were no second chances with the Kaguya.

It happened so quickly, Madara's eyes had registered it before his brain. He was still staring at the blood pooling on the ground—Reon the bartender was screaming somewhere in the background, faraway to his muffled ears—when he was dragged up by Nikao's spinal cord.

"Do we have anything on this one?" said Nikao, giving Madara a shake, as though any of the Kaguya had forgotten him. They hadn't and were still staring at him. "Kikue?"

A slender Kaguya was squinting at Madara, who raised his chin and poured every ounce of contempt he could muster into his glare.

"He's familiar," said Kikue.

Nikao let out a grunt. "Suppose Youta-sama will know what to do with him."

Madara was set roughly on his feet, wrists grasped and tied with wire behind his back. The other Kaguya convened on him, digging through his hair as though searching for ticks. A thick hand grabbed his jaw and yanked his face up, forcing him to look into yellowed teeth barred in a grin.

"Do you have pointy teeth? Like a cat?"

"Suppose he can land on his feet no matter how far he falls!"

There was a shriek of excitement. "Let's try it out!"

He scrambled to get away as they pulled on the wires, dragging him bodily through the supply room. Nikao gave them a sharp order that was drowned out by the rumble of footfalls through the ground, and Madara caught Reon's eyes. Her face was fixed in a look of horror, transfixed as they pulled him this way and that, as though he was something less than human.

Nikao noticed her, his face splitting into a grin.

"__Boo__," he said.

She tripped over herself running away, leaving Madara to the wolves. The bitterness of her betrayal was offset by the bite of pain in his wrists, a chill steeping through his mantle and yukata.

As he was yanked off his feet for the third time, no more than fifteen minutes later, well away from the bar, he made a silent promise to hunt her down. They would have a nice chat about dealing in human lives and the consequences from it. He wondered how many people she'd tricked into slavery.

The Kaguya wouldn't give him enough time to get his bearings. The moment he'd catch his feet under him, the wires were yanked taut again and he was sent crashing to the ground. His face was going numb from the cold.

Some time later, a Kaguya boy, perhaps around Madara's own age, fell into step beside him.

"Do all Uchiha look like you?" he said, flicking away long strands of ashen hair.

Madara kept his chin high and didn't answer.

"Hey, don't ignore me!"

There was an audible pout in his tone, a whine that wasn't so much irritated as slightly amused. Madara was reminded Izuna. What he wouldn't give to be within the snow-made walls of the Uchiha encampment; if not necessarily well-fed or cared for, then at least not in danger of whatever harm they wanted to inflict on him.

What felt like a brick slammed into the back of his head. He staggered, stars flurrying across his vision.

"__Answer his question!__"

"H-Hey, now, let's not give him a concussion," said the pale-haired Kaguya. "Unless __you__ want to carry him the whole way back?"

"I wouldn't even notice the weight," said the other, dismissively. They were the slender one, fast as a striking snake, brown-haired and blue-eyed, called Kikue. "He's built like a grasshopper. All skinny __legs__."

They broke off into bickering. While they were distracted flinging petty insults at each other, Madara rotated his one good wrist. He couldn't break free of the bindings, nor could he use a kawarimi to escape them—in hindsight, he should have let Nikao explain why it wasn't working—and there was nowhere for him to take cover, if he tried to run. Any one of them could be a sensor, so hiding wasn't an option, either.

His thoughts were upturned, as he was grabbed by the elbow, tipped head over heels.

"I like these shoes," said the Kaguya holding him, another brunette. He squinted at Madara's sandals. "I never thought of using different colored string!"

"Put—me—__down!__" Madara bucked against the grip. "__I swear I'll kick out your teeth__—"

"I've got extras," said the Kaguya, waving it away.

Madara let out a scream of pure anger, reaching for the part of him that was __more__. He was not that person from the future, but he would be __damned__ before he was manhandled.

The hand shifted its grip to his hair—and then slammed his head into the icy grown, hard enough to make the world careen out of control. He could see the susano'o, practically taste its energy, but it was ever and always stubbornly out of reach. His stomach flipped with nausea as he was hauled up again.

"You done?" said the Kaguya. He was working Madara's shoes off. "Damn, I just want your sandals. Calm down."

Madara kneed the Kaguya's face. It earned the first burst of real irritation from any of them, which only ended up with Madara hanging off the Kaguya's back by the wires, arms tugged up awkwardly behind his back. Every jostle sent threatening jolts of pain through his shoulders.

"He's a wily one," said Nikao.

The Kaguya didn't mirror the sentiment. "He's a brat."

As the settlement dwindled from view, so did Madara's hopes of getting away. Nikao had broken apart his spine, distributing the pieces to the other Kaguya to use as various adornments. The pale-haired, youngest Kaguya of the bunch wore them in his hair like a crown of bone. The same Kaguya seemed to have decided Madara was one of the most fascinating things he'd ever seen in his life.

It could have very well been the case. Itama and Kawarama had never seen anyone outside the Senju Clan, after all. The same could be said for the Kaguya boy.

Not that Madara particularly cared, but he could only imagine the horrible things the Kaguya were going to do to him once they arrived at the compound for so long. The scenery wasn't the most riveting—icy tundra, squat little trees, with the far-off wrinkle of the central forests Madara had come to call home.

"How many kunai can you throw at once?" said the Kaguya boy.

Madara didn't reply, staring loftily over his head.

The boy tarried on blithely. "I can throw up to eight a time—one between each finger. Can you use swords? I can use swords. I like to use my arm bones for swords—they're the strongest, y'know—but apparently the femur is actually __stronger__, so I'm trying to work to getting that one out, but it's—"

And so on. Madara wanted to tear his ears off. However, since he couldn't reach his ears, he settled for the next best thing.

The Kaguya boy strayed a little closer, having apparently taken Madara's stony silence as an invitation, trying to show off a scar on his forearm from where his shikotsumyaku had backfired, which wasn't something Madara knew possible. He filed away the information as the boy took one more step, rotated his shoulders back so he was supporting his own weight—

The boy shrieked as Madara's foot connected with his chin. He used the boy's forehead as a springboard and let his momentum carry him over the head of the Kaguya hanging onto him—twisted his legs around their neck, then the wires, and __squeezed__.

"I'll break his neck!"

A half circle of Kaguya had surrounded, hands hesitating on their weapons. The Kaguya boy was wiping away a nosebleed.

"Pass me a kunai and let me leave," said Madara, "and I won't kill him."

The Kaguya wheezed in his arms, hands grappling at the wires.

"Go ahead," said Nikao. "The Kaguya value strength and death in honorable combat. Our clansman will go to the pureland a hero."

Madara didn't know why he was surprised. They took sport decorating themselves in human bones. Somehow, it still made his stomach churn.

There was a weapons pouch strapped to the Kaguya's thigh. He hadn't so much as glanced at it, before he was dragged up by another spine. It was just as horrifying as the first one. Nikao didn't wait for him to unwind the wires, so the Kaguya was dragged up with him, dangling from the bindings and choking. They flailed for a few moments—Nikao gave Madara jerk that made him cry out—and the Kaguya went still.

"Oh, __sages__," Madara breathed out, staring at the dead body hanging from the wires binding his wrists.

"You've got spunk," said Nikao. "However, at this rate we won't reach the compound before the next storm, so you need to—"

A strong right hook knocked Madara unconscious before Nikao was finished talking.

* * *

Izuna was caught and dragged back to camp no less than six times before the end of the day, by the increasingly aggravated Naori and Hikaku. He had planned on sneaking up on Madara and revealing himself when they were too far to turn back. They'd never gone on a joint mission before, just the two of them, and Izuna was nothing if not one to want to prove himself.

That, and he was scared. He didn't consider himself a very superstitious sort of person, but when his glass had shattered while he was drinking tea, and Hokibo had muttered something low and dark about omens, Izuna had wondered. Omens had to come from somewhere, after all. There was a __reason__ they were feared.

At least, that was what kept buzzing around his head like a hive of angry hornets. The atmosphere in the Uchiha encampment was very much like the inside of Izuna's head the following morning.

Madara hadn't returned.

The night was harsher than any other thus far, taking two more casualties from illness. Tajima hadn't even left the clan head tent. When Izuna reported in, the morning sky dawning a bright red, Tajima was still working. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to have aged ten years.

Izuna wasn't going to visit Nakano River, but as the drawn, bitterly disappointed faces of his fellow Uchiha gradually escalated his worry to a fever pitch, he couldn't stay. If he stayed, the scream pushing in his chest might actually escape.

To avoid the straightjacket he would have undoubtedly been forced into, had he burst out screaming randomly, he sneaked out of camp. He shot the passing patrol a strained smile, who only watched him go with exhaustion.

That was how Izuna found himself arguing over water creatures with Kawarama and Itama. Hashirama was being soundly beaten in a game of shogi.

The mood was entirely too relaxed for Izuna's liking.

"Oh, look," said Kawarama. "It's a crawdad."

Izuna followed his finger, to find a small clawed, lobster-looking creature that was most definitely a __crayfish__. When he said as such, he was given identical looks of confusion from Itama and Kawarama.

"It's a crawdad," said Itama.

"It's a __crayfish__," said Izuna, a little desperately. "I have __never__ heard it called a crawdad. That sounds stupid."

"It is __not__ stupid," said Kawarama, offended. "That's what they're called!"

"It's a crayfish."

"Crawdad."

"__Crayfish!__"

While they were arguing, the little clawed being scuttled off under a rock. They weren't successful rooting it out again, and returned to the shore, where Tobirama had finished up a fourth consecutive win.

Hashirama smiled at them through the sulky gloom. He looked as though he was trying to figure out a polite way to say something very impolite, and had come to a standstill in his mind. Finally, he burst.

"Is Madara coming?"

Izuna hadn't mentioned his brother, or why he wasn't there. He hadn't trusted himself to speak. With the camp at a distance, and by extension, his worries, it was easier.

"He went on a supply run," said Izuna. "He's been… delayed."

"He wasn't visiting the settlement to the east, was he?" said Hashirama, hands braced on his knees as he swiveled in place. "We had reports of Kaguya in that area."

Someone had given the beehive in Izuna's sternum a good hard kick. It howled with blinding terror.

He said nothing to confirm or deny the words, but the grim look that darkened Hashirama into something completely alien to the boy Izuna had come to know meant he had gleaned enough from the lack of an answer.

Izuna could hardly hear himself speak over the roar in his ears.

"I have to go."

"Wait," said Hashirama. "Izuna, wait—"

The sounds of Hashirama's shouting after him faded as he crashed through the forest, shoving aside branches and leaping over fallen trees, until he remembered he was a shinobi and took to the canopies. He couldn't see Madara's face without the bodies of his little brothers laid out next to him. The imagination, ever a powerful and cursed thing, made up an image of Madara ashen with death.

He wouldn't even be recognizable, if he was captured by the Kaguya. Izuna wished he could shut off his mind sometimes, and the awful things it played for him. Deaths and torments and long, lonely nights where he was the last one left of their small, unfortunate family.

There was already a hum of rumors when he arrived at camp. Inside the clan head tent, Hikari and Hokibo were standing by Tajima's desk. Neither of them were arguing, but the Elders still looked angry.

"Izuna," said Hokibo, when Tajima didn't budge a muscle. He was glued to the report on his desk. Izuna had a horrible, sinking feeling he knew what the report said. "We were about to send scouts out looking for you."

It was good they hadn't. Izuna couldn't handle his river friends being discovered __and__ his brother's capture, all in the same day.

"Do you have news about Madara?" said Izuna, trying not to sound obvious about the fact he already knew. His face spasmed from the effort, hands fisting at his sides. He'd never been as good as Madara at hiding his body language.

Tajima still didn't move.

Hikari, seemingly taking pity on him, replied in his stead. "A boy matching Madara-kun's description was witnessed being led away by a group of Kaguya, marked at least fifteen in total."

It was as though someone poured molten lightning in his veins. He couldn't stop himself jerking forward, towards Tajima, who __still wasn't moving__, urgency turning his movements graceless and desperate. He slammed his hands on the desk, hard. He wasn't sure what he wanted to achieve, other than to make Tajima do __something__.

Tajima looked up. His face was all wrong. It was calm and waxen pale, mouth set in a slashing line.

"The day's still early," said Izuna, confused by the look, but determinedly pushing it aside. "If we get a squad together—"

"We will do nothing."

The floodgates the Elders seemed to have been waiting for opened. They swelled up like great, angry balloons.

"__Tajima-sama__," said Hikari.

"He's your __son__!" thundered Hokibo.

"Think of __Masa__—"

"Get out," said Tajima. When neither of them moved, he raised his voice. "GET OUT!"

They could no more argue with the expression of raw fury on his face, than they could argue with a tsunami. Izuna almost scurried out with them, but was held in place by Tajima's gaze falling on him.

"Father," said Izuna, mustering his courage in the face of Tajima's scowl. "He'll __die__."

"If he's lucky," Tajima muttered darkly, so quiet that Izuna almost couldn't hear. "You don't remember Masami well, do you? You were so young when she died."

Bringing up Izuna's mother felt like arguing politics in the middle of a life-and-death battle. He couldn't even form words around the horror that was drowning him.

"Father—"

"She was killed by Kaguya," Tajima cut in ruthlessly, as though he __wanted__ the truth to hurt. "She was unrecognizable when we got her body back. They __ruined__ her."

"All the more reason to get him __back__," Izuna half-sobbed, half yelled in abject despair. His father had his way. Hearing those truths hurt. It terrified him. He could only think of his brother, of a corpse that didn't even look __human__ anymore. "Before they kill him!"

"They had her for a day," said Tajima, losing focus so quickly, it was as though he'd never left the moment Izuna's mother was killed. "It doesn't take them long. If Madara is smart… he'll end it himself."

Izuna felt as though he was watching another person in Tajima's body. It wasn't his father standing in front of him, but a twisted stranger wearing his skin.

"Better to die with dignity."

Stumbling out of the tent, half aware of his surroundings, Izuna didn't hear the Elders calling after him. He launched himself back into the forest and prayed the Senju brothers hadn't left Nakano River.

* * *

Madara woke around midafternoon the next day to find one of the Kaguya had gagged him. They had also broken his fingers, angled unnaturally in a thick clay mold to force them to heal wrong. His hands wouldn't form seals again, the Kaguya had said, when he'd stared at the casts, unable to form words that were fitting to the dark feeling swallowing him up.

Farther away from them, like a massive carcass of rotted wood and carelessly built ramparts, was the Kaguya compound.

They put no effort into maintenance and seemed content letting weather and war test the mettle of the compound's build. A crunch of something underfoot that Madara initially thought was ice turned out to be chunks of dried bones, littering the landscape around the compound. Gibbets were hung around the entrance, positioned out like a walkway of honor.

Some of the gibbets still had things in them. Bodies, shriveled up under the sun.

One such corpse looked fresh, papery skin stretched over a skeleton, eyes protruding from a gaunt face that was all hollowed cheeks. The bony chest gave a rattling, stuttering heave of breath and Madara realized, with horror, they were __alive.__

A pair of hazy eyes stared at him, so dulled from starvation and torture that the color was gone.

Unbidden, an evening from years ago clawed through Madara's memory: he was seven, throwing kunai after kunai at targets, as his father watched. Then, he'd taken Madara's hand and stopped him, grip almost bruising. Not long ago, Madara's mother had died. She was killed by Kaguya.

"If you can run, do it," Tajima had said, eyes urgent and burning, even without the sharingan. "If you have to fight, then try. But do not—__do not__ let them take you alive."

It had been a horrifying thing to hear, for a child of seven years. It was even worse to remember, while he was held at the mercy of a Kaguya, staring directly into the eyes of a victim who was an example of their brutality.

He had no weapons and his hands were pounding like a pair of second heartbeats, numbed only slightly by the cold. Even if he wanted to end it, he couldn't. Nor did he __want__ to end it. He knew for all the memories hurt and made him ashamed of who he could become, it was a second chance that no one else would get, not ever. There was no promise he would get a third chance.

The inside of his mind was a catacomb of silence. He couldn't see the colorful rooftops of a village not yet founded. Hashirama's stone-carved face wasn't flashing before his eyes. The ghost itself didn't want to witness what was about to happen.

As they drew nearer—charred bodies were pinned to the outside walls, contorted in a grotesque dance they would not have been able to achieve in life—Madara found regrets he didn't know he had bubbled within him. He was walking to a long, slow gallows. He wondered if people left to the guillotine and other capital punishments went through the same thing.

Regrets struck him. He should have tried harder with the rest of his clan. He should have learned how to be a proper person faster, how to wield words the way others did so effortlessly. He should have told Izuna how much he loved him, how he would die for him, over and over again. If only he'd packed up a bit of courage and challenged Tajima more often. If only he told Hashirama how much he—how their dream—meant to him.

There was throaty caw and a raven landed on the top of the dying man's gibbet. Madara looked away.

He was led through the compound, passing real houses, instead of the Uchiha Clan's tents. Eyes peered at him from rooftops, behind shudders, in a wide, circular area that was filled with a raging bonfire and seemed to double as a training arena. There was a glow of eagerness in their faces.

They arrived at a house in the center of the compound, larger and grander than the others, that had to belong to the Clan Head. The inside of the house was bleak and utilitarian, which was off-putting. Madara had expected trophy heads mounted on the walls.

A Kaguya appeared in his face. He had the same pale hair as most of the shikotsumyaku users seemed to possess, with a square jaw and a pinched expression. The hollows of his cheeks spoke of countless hungry nights. The necklace of gold, finely crafted and tagged with multiple seals, paired with the way everyone stood around him with an air of respect, gave him away as the Clan Head. He was also the only shinobi in the room wielding a staff.

He gave a hand signal, and the gathered shinobi cleared out, leaving them alone in the room, with the exception of the pale-haired Kaguya boy. He was the same one Madara kicked in the face earlier.

"Uchiha Tajima's boy, huh?"

They were the first words the clan head spoke. He set out several candles, lighting them.

"What about it?" said Madara, sounding a lot braver than he felt. Then, because he was hoping if he angered them enough, they would do whatever it was they planned on doing quicker—__killing him__, probably—he added, "Do you have a problem with my clan? Because the skulls and infatuation with death really screams __'Help, I had no friends growing up and my mother hated me.'__"

"You don't have a filter, do you?" It was less of a question and more of a grudging statement. "Have you forgotten your place, or should I let my clansmen do to you as they want?"

"And why haven't you?" said Madara, doing his best not to sound genuinely confused. He'd expected thumbscrews and racks to come into the picture a lot sooner.

The Kaguya Clan Head resembled a wizened, grumpy owl, staring unblinkingly. It turned Madara into a mouse under his gaze, a hopelessly tiny thing running from the talons of a creature determined to tear him apart. A heavy chakra was steeping into the area, saturating the walls and tatami mats. It wasn't killing intent, but a uniquely powerful chakra that put Madara's hairs on end.

"Fate is certainly fond of its jokes," said the clan head. "I've a story for you."

"I'm not interested."

"Of course you aren't," said the clan head. "Anyway—it takes place a little over eight years ago, in the forests very near here. A little boy strayed far from his clan, see. A mischievous thing—probably gave his parents a hearty challenge. I stumbled across him—well, I heard him first."

The clan head set aside the candles. He gave the mats several sharp raps. "Just like that—drilling into a tree. You'd mistake him for a woodpecker, small thing he was. Not a woodpecker, though—too human, for one. No __red__, either. You ever notice all woodpeckers have red?"

"Father," said the Kaguya boy, with a touch of fond exasperation.

"Well, anyway, yes," said the clan head. "The boy was drilling into a tree, eating __grubs__ of all things. Mighty appetite. And I thought—well, I actually thought __'What the hell?'__ and then __'That is disgusting'__ or something like that. I ate grubs once and—"

"__Father__."

"So I charged the boy!" said the clan head, smacking his fist on the ground. "Charged him head on! Skinny thing he was, wouldn't have survived long out there. D'you know what the little shit did, though?"

Madara, thoroughly fed up with the entire story, did not care. He was trying very hard not to think back eight years, because something about the story was stirring dust in his head, and he didn't like it. Things in his head really ought to have stayed quiet, as they had for the past few weeks. The odd memory popped up every now and again—that time he craved mochi and ate it until he was sick—but his mind had been blessedly, wonderfully normal. Within reason, of course. No one would ever call Madara __normal__.

With that in mind, he kept his mouth sealed shut and tried to wordlessly let the Kaguya clan head, and his son, apparently, know exactly how much he didn't care about the story.

Heedless to his prisoner's disregard, or because of it, the clan head soldiered on. "Kicked me in the chin! Moved around quick as anything—hollow bones, I wagered."

"Humans don't have __hollow bones__," said the Kaguya boy with the superior air of one who had done a lot of research and liked reminding people.

"Yes, well, I didn't get to kill him," said the clan head. "A woman stopped me. Rather beautiful, typical Uchiha woman. All cheekbones."

That sent a spark of irritation through Madara. Contrary to popular belief, all Uchiha did __not__ look the same. They had a lot of raven-haired people, but that didn't mean they looked identical. Nor did they all have sharp cheekbones.

"You know how I know you're Tajima's son, boy?" said the clan head. He gave a crooked grin, as though he held the rug and Madara was about to go head over heels. It was as alarming as it was annoying, because something about that tale was striking a chord in him. "That woman was Tajima's wife, and you could be her clone."

Madara had snatched up the candles and attempted to shove it through the clan head's eye, before he even realized he moved. He was yanked back by the ninja wire binding his wrists, a rib bone piercing his mantle down to the ground.

Caution had been thrown to the wind in the face of the man who had __killed his mother__.

He knew why the story resonated so sickeningly within him. It was a memory he'd gone most of his life trying not to remember. That fog-filled day on his sixth birthday had been banished into the deepest recesses of his mind, buried under caverns full of lifegiving chakra and bloody moons and a goddess reborn from the ashes of legend. Even as he remembered pale branches that weren't branches, and curled ferns painted in what wasn't berry juice, he was trying not to.

The craggy grin on the clan head's face was entirely out of place in Madara's red-hazed, furious mind. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

"Interesting coincidence, eh?" he said. "The mother and the son. . . . Definitely Tajima's chin, though."

He mumbled to himself a few more times while Madara stewed on the ground, trying to work his fingers through the clay seizing them. It was hard as ice and he couldn't seem to channel warm chakra to his fingers, leaving them cold and numbed.

"Anyway—thought you ought to know," said the clan head. "Youdai, take our guest to his quarters?"

"His quarters?" said the boy, Youdai.

The clan head sighed. "The one with bars."

Madara's quarters, to the surprise of no one, least of all himself, consisted of a small cage that was hardly large enough to fit him. He kicked Youdai in the face and made a break for the wall, only to get knocked down. When that failed, he tried to use the cage door to knock Youdai unconscious. Three other Kaguya caught him that time. Finally, he resorted to gripping the edges of the cage door, very much like a rat one tried to shove into a mouse ball more that once. None of his attempts to avoid the cage succeeded.

A Kaguya with red hair took another line of wire and wrapped it around his neck, tying it just tightly enough that Madara couldn't strain too hard, lest he choke himself. It left every breath short, not quite deep enough to satisfy him, and within minutes his lips were tingling.

"I think it's killing him, Mikai."

"Nah, he's good."

"His lips are turning blue."

"Oh, shit—you're right."

The wire was loosened, but the boa constrictor that had looped around his lungs and __squeezed__ didn't vanish. He was pressed against the cage, as far away from the crowd of onlooking Kaguya as he could get, clayed fingers wedged into the bars.

If nothing else, they needed him alive. Whether it was for his eyes, or something else, he didn't know.

"You know that rumor Uchiha are related to birds?"

"I thought it was cats?"

"Oh, even better!"

Precious few times in Madara's life had he ever wanted to fade away from reality. The first was his sixth birthday, watching jutsu and blades slice through a forest that had seemed like home; the second was the first time Tajima truly lost his temper, all of eight years old and trying so hard to be older than he was, to be the shinobi his little brothers looked up to, before they died.

Each time, he'd retreated into some place deep in his mind, so that he was no longer a shell of bones and flesh, and he'd become something else.

It wasn't necessarily more, or less, than what he was in conscious thought. He still had a body, legs under him and hands grasping at iron bars. Jeering faces were laughing at him, so horribly amused by something they thought was more of a doll than a human. Grasping fingers plucked at his hair and pried his eyes opened and got too close to watch the slide of clear eyelids, hooting and hollering when they spotted them.

The night progressed and alcohol flowed. One of them wanted a souvenir and attacked his hand, bound by clay and all but frozen stiff. He had broken from his mind roughly, then—like a pupae torn from its chrysalis too early.

With a kunai positioned over his wrist, three Kaguya jostling each other—"Hand of luck! Lucky hand!? Oh, oh! The __hand of fate__!"—the blade sliced through skin—a thin line of blood spilled—and Madara was shrieking at them __to stop__.

Someone yanked the Kaguya away, the four of them stumbling back towards the fire. It burst in high flames, glass shattering, voices screeching in humor and fury alike. Three separate brawls had broken out. Someone broke a bottle of alcohol over Madara's cage, splattering him in freezing liquid and glass.

He curled his legs to his chest. His bare, bloody feet had long since lost all feeling, his toes purple and blue. Tajima's voice was so clear, he could have been standing right outside the cage.

__Don't let them take you alive__.


	6. The Silence Blooming

**Chapter Six**

**The Silence Blooming**

Falling trees made noise, even in the middle of a deserted forest. There was the groan of tearing wood and a crash as the branches snapped on the way down. It was a lengthy, dramatic affair.

Hashirama would be the first to confirm, if one bothered to ask, there was a lot of noise as they fell. He kept a close enough eye on the forest to know when something was going to happen, good or bad. If a squirrel fumbled and darted over the wrong branch, he knew. If there were critters in the night that shouldn't have been, he knew. Most of all, if there was a tree out of place, he would know and worry about it immensely.

Blessed with the mokuton as he was, it allowed him to more or less monitor the forests day and night. He knew when trees were sickly, when they were dying, and when something had gone very wrong.

At some point, had someone asked him about the state of the forest, they would come to realization he was not talking about the trees at all. On the contrary, while he was fond of nature, it was the things scurrying around __inside__ nature that concerned him. More to the point, it was the person.

There had been a fallen tree in the night, and Hashirama was very aware. Wildflowers that he kept blooming through the winter had curled up, bulbs blackening. A fresh coating of snow had covered them quickly enough, but he had noticed. It was his first sign.

His second sign was the report that came in from the eastern settlements. There was Kaguya Clan movement where they shouldn't have been, another piece out of place.

Vines were growing around the compound walls by then, thick and dark leaves soaking in the sunlight, so most people mistook them as an attempt to keep the clan warm. They functioned as such and if Hashirama was in the habit of lying to himself, he would have believed that was their purpose. He wasn't in the habit of lying to himself and they weren't purposeful, so much as coincidentally useful.

A bloody red sky had dawned that morning and through a concentrated will of effort, Hashirama ignored the part of him that whispered __bad omen__. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. __He wasn't even a sailor__.

The third and final nail in his coffin was Izuna's arrival to Nakano River—alone. He managed to avoid Hashirama's eyes and Tobirama's pointed questions with such ease that it was a wonder why he even visited in the first place. Finally, physically unable to stand the intangible ants crawling tunnels through his skin, Hashirama had snapped and asked him about Madara.

The hounds of hell could have been on Izuna's heels after heard the Kaguya Clan's whereabouts.

Hashirama didn't consider himself a pessimist. He didn't consider himself an optimist, either. There was marked difference between the two default states, and it wasn't the one—in his opinion—that people would assume. The truth was that an optimist would rarely deny their optimism. They were an optimist and they knew it. A pessimist, on the other hand, believed the world really __was__ that bleak, living under the mistaken impression __they__ were a realist.

Realism by its nature was something of a rarity. To look upon the world with a realist's eye was to look at it without biases or preconceptions. Hashirama liked to believe he was one of the few people who were close to being a true realist.

It just so happened the reality of the situation felt a lot like pessimism, and he didn't like it. Chances were, Madara was captured by the Kaguya Clan. Chances were, he wasn't in good condition.

"If he was captured by the Kaguya Clan, he's already dead," said Tobirama, not unkindly. "You know how they are."

__Tobirama__ was a pessimist. He called it realism, but Hashirama knew better.

"We can't know that," he said. "__If__ it's him—"

"You're saying that like you're not already certain," said Tobirama.

"—then they might have kept him alive," Hashirama forged on. "He's the son of the clan leader, right? They would want to use him."

"I don't think the Kaguya care about that kind of thing," said Tobirama. "If he's lucky, they did it quickly—"

"__Don't__ say that," said Hashirama, cutting him off with a sharp, reprimanding look. "He's not dead. He can't be dead."

Tobirama didn't reply. They settled onto a rock and waited for Izuna to, hopefully, return.

Hashirama couldn't explain why he was so certain. It was a gut instinct. The same way the sky was blue, the grass was green, and the falling tree made an almighty noise, Uchiha Madara was __not__ dead. That didn't stop him playing various scenarios in his mind.

He'd seen the results of people captured by the Kaguya Clan. None of them had been first hand, nor had any of them been close to him. That didn't mitigate the feeling of horror that welled in his chest when he thought of frail bodies left to dry out under the sun, corpses left to the ravens. In the center of those mental images, like the sun in a cold, dark universe, was Madara. They rotated around him, mind working furiously to put an image to what he didn't want to see. Caged, bound, beaten, and dead.

Tobirama's words dogged his thoughts. __He's already dead__. Were the clan in question any other, or the victim from another clan, he might have agreed. It would have curled in his stomach in a viscous, poisonous sort of feeling, like he was dying himself. The Kaguya Clan were not known for their mercy. Nor were they known for the patience.

What they __were__ known for was a single-minded drive to find the proudest, biggest warrior. They had no care for borders, or clan wars, or noblemen's boundaries, when a query of interest was in mind. And there was none prouder than the Uchiha Clan, who always held their heads high in the midst of battles as though they were trying to become the birds they championed.

Madara was a gem in the rough to a few Kaguya randomly passing through the settlement. That thought stuck oddly in Hashirama's head for a moment, though he couldn't puzzle out why. He was too busy trying desperately not to see Madara's corpse in his mind's eye, wishing he didn't have plenty of experience with corpses to do it.

The inside of Hashirama's chest was full of little birds doing acrobatics, jabbing beaks into his heart. He tapped his fingers on his knees, watching the sky. It was still a dark gray overcast. Not much time must have passed since Izuna left, but he felt as though he'd been ruminating for __hours__.

He needed to focus. It felt as though Madara a kicked a hornet's nest in Hashirama's head.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tobirama spoke.

"Izuna is returning."

Hashirama nodded jerkily and leapt to his feet, pacing back and forth.

"Head back to the compound for my armor, will you?" he said.

"Our armor," said Tobirama.

"Now, look—"

"Don't argue, anija. You'll just waste time."

Of course, he was right. Hashirama hated it when Tobirama was right. He was gone before Izuna reappeared through the tree line, looking as though he'd seen something horrible.

Izuna explained the state of his clan through gasping breaths.

The little birds in Hashirama's chest exploded into balls of white-hot anger. Madara's own __father__ would leave him to die at the hands of the Kaguya. He imagined himself, or one of his brothers, captured by the Kaguya and wondered if Butsuma would make the same decision as Tajima. When he had to deliberate over it half a second too long, he realized the answer would probably upset him even further.

If the news of Tajima's disregard for Madara's safety had stirred up Hashirama, that was nothing on Izuna. He was snappish and downright cruel in his terror. Every question and statement was met with a snarled response, sarcastic and cutting.

"Where is Tobirama?" Izuna burst out, whirling on Hashirama, eyes red with the Sharingan.

"Off to get armor and weapons," he said, and the words had barely left his mouth before Izuna was spinning away again.

"Aren't we enough!?"

"No," said Hashirama bluntly. There was never gentle progress with Izuna. "We're going against a whole clan of battle-hungry maniacs. I'm not an adult and you're not even a teenager. We need armor and weapons and you know it."

"__How are you so calm!?__"

At some point, it seemed, Hashirama learned what __calm__ looked like. If only Izuna could feel the tornado tearing about inside of him. He didn't feel remotely calm.

Izuna didn't wait for a reply. He turned around again, sweeping down to snatch up a rock—then lobbed it across the river as hard as he could.

__"__I can't __believe him! He would LEAVE MY BROTHER TO DIE__—"

At that same moment, Tobirama emerged from the forest, several sealing scrolls clutched in his arms. There was another figure with him, and Hashirama's heart leapt into his throat, until he recognized her. She was a year or two older than him, willowy, with a severe face. Her brown hair pulled into a bun at the base of her neck.

"Who are you?" said Izuna, eyes flicking between Tobirama and the newcomer. Three tomoe spun around madly in his eyes.

"I'm Touka," she said.

Hashirama watched her warily. It wasn't that he didn't trust Touka. She was one of the few rational-minded people in the Senju Clan, but that was always with the Senju. Their predicament had nothing to do with Senju Clan matters. Specifically it had everything to do with __helping__ the Uchiha, and those were words he wasn't sure Touka was ready, or willing, to hear.

She looked up and down at Izuna, who barely struggled up to her shoulders in height. There was a healthy guardedness to her eyes, but nothing that spoke of treachery. Hashirama let his shoulders relax.

"She can be trusted," said Tobirama. There was a stiffness in his tone that reminded Hashirama of the time one of his experiments blew up and it shattered his bedframe. He went three weeks without a proper bed because he was too embarrassed to reveal what he'd done. "She caught me getting into the supplies and I explained the situation to her."

"He begged," said Touka, thin lips curving into a smile.

"I did __not__," said Tobirama hotly.

Touka gave an eyeroll.

"Right. Anyway, we've got your armor and an extra set for your friend here," at this, she threw Izuna a look, who glared back her. "Cheerful. We also grabbed weapons. Take your pick."

All the distrust and fury in the world couldn't have kept Izuna from good weapons. He was on the sealing scrolls in a flash and stuffing kunai into his pouches, a sword on his back, and—after a moment of hesitation—another one on his hip.

"For my brother," he said mulishly. "In case he needs to fight, too, when we bust him out."

"Might as well grab a third one, then," said Tobirama. "You aren't fooling anyone—you're not parting with that second sword."

Izuna hissed at him, but tellingly grabbed a third sword.

* * *

Once evening had darkened, allowing the first couple stars to shine, they crept out of the forest to make their resolute way to the Kaguya Clan compound. Quiet and speed were essential to their success, as even with the addition of Touka, they would be pitifully outnumbered.

Hashirama's skin was crawling in mutiny under his armor.

Despite the agonizing wait until they set off, he felt as though no time had passed at all. The tundra barren and empty for miles around, and he was certain they would be too slow reaching the compound.

Formulating a plan felt a lot like trying to tie a lasso around a hundred slippery eels. They darted one way and another, pointed out different angles of the field, everything he needed to take into account, until he wasn't sure which way was __up__ anymore.

The wait in the forest had done a number to Hashirama's nerves. He was always expecting a Senju scout to melt out of the shadows. The trees sometimes looked like Butsuma's face.

Izuna was ready to charge from the moment they had the weapons and armor. He'd been bodily held back by Tobirama, who nearly lost an eye for his effort. Hashirama had been in agreement with Izuna at that point, charging forward the moment Izuna twitched forward. Touka had snatched Hashirama cleanly out of the air and held him by the back of his plated armor with a decidedly unamused look on her face.

Hashirama was not used to having to __wait__ to charge in and help. Every time he'd suspected something happened to his brothers, he'd grabbed his armor and __ran__, and damned the consequences. Butsuma's disapproving eyes on his back, the whisper from the Elders that __it would get that boy killed__ one day, had never stopped him.

Usually, he had the brute force to make up for his recklessness.

The mokuton was more than swaying branches in the wind and healing injuries. There was a song only he heard in the creak and groan of trees. The earth thrummed a living heartbeat. Each and every creature of the planet was just another extension of something nebulous and __enormous__, a deeply-set truth that webbed into so many implications for the mokuton's powers, he wasn't sure it was __right__ to explore it all.

Mapped out, its mysteries unraveled, there was little in the world that would challenge Hashirama. However, as its mysteries were firmly bunched up and its waters decidedly uncharted, he wasn't quite the force of nature he sensed lurking under his skin.

Even if he was, Hashirama was one person, and the Kaguya Clan lived for improbable odds. If he posed a challenge, they would throw themselves at him for the laughs. If they somehow knocked a few stones together in their heads and came out with __"He was trying to save Uchiha Madara__," they might very well just kill Madara to watch his reaction—to make anger fuel his fight.

They were slowing to a halt at the base of a tall, sloping hill. He stared up at it, the gnarled branches of frozen trees silhouetted by moonlight at the top.

They scaled the hill. Below them, in a shallow valley, was the Kaguya Compound. It was a rotted, sprawling thing, as though the compound itself was a disease slowly curling its way over the land. The ramparts were in disrepair. What Hashirama initially thought was black war paint splattered onto the outside walls were bodies, twisted and turned into an unnatural dance.

Rusted metal glinted dully in the moonlight below them. Gibbets swung idly, each housed with an unmoving body. With his heart flipping into his mouth, Hashirama did a sweep of the bodies, searching for one that was too small to be an adult. He didn't find anything and the relief in his chest swiftly turned to guilt. Each of those people were dead. One of the bodies, closest to the compound entrance, looked as though they'd died recently.

Tobirama looked faintly sick.

"Not just the rumors, then."

Izuna had a white knuckled grip on the edges of his chest plate. His nails were digging into the fresh red paint, scraping it up in jagged curls.

"Why are they even allowed to exist?" he said.

Hashirama said nothing in response. Inwardly, he felt the smallest bit of shame at thinking the same, muted as it was by the horror in front of him.

Bonfires were lit inside the compound. Even from the top of the hill, he could hear the loud, booming voices of Kaguya, fighting and making merry alike. They had not a care in the world, the brutality of their own actions seeming to elude them.

"What are we waiting for?" said Izuna impatiently.

"For them to go to sleep," said Touka, blowing on her hands to keep them warm. She was an earth type shinobi and her chakra wasn't conducive to long hours in the cold, though it was better than Izuna and Tobirama, who were trying not to shiver too badly. "We need the element of surprise."

No one replied. Their breaths puffed up the air. Hashirama was tapping two rocks together, before Tobirama shot him a highly irritated side-eyed glare, and he set them down.

"A-Are they going to s-sleep __tonight__?" snarled Izuna, though its vehemence was slightly dampened by his chattering teeth. "This is ridiculous."

"I was hoping they'd pass out from alcohol poisoning by now," said Touka.

Tobirama gave a thoughtful sound. "Maybe we should have poisoned the supply."

"Did you have poison?" said Izuna, glaring at them accusingly. He hadn't opened up to Touka, but he seemed to have resigned himself to her presence in the way one might resign themselves to the fact ticks existed to suck blood.

"I have poisoned senbon," said Touka. "I could knock out the wall guards, but that's about it."

"Why didn't you take __more__!?" said Izuna.

"Remember we were trying __not__ to get noticed," snapped Tobirama, having finally run out of patience. "I think my father would notice if I was stocking up to run against a whole __clan__."

"We __are__ going against a whole clan!" said Izuna.

Hashirama cut in as Tobirama's face screwed up into a visage of spectacular anger.

"We'll have to use strategy," he said. "Obviously, charging in won't give us much of an advantage."

"Oh, I'm sure charging in would make their day," said Touka. "Surprise fight before four o'clock drinks? Must be the winter festival early."

"Can you see my brother?" said Izuna, crimson eyes opened wide and unblinking. "There's a big bonfire there. It's blocking anything behind it."

"Why're you asking us?" said Tobirama. "You have the super eyes."

Izuna shoved him and started down the hill, dodging Touka's grasping hand and Hashirama's attempt to stop him. They followed, as it didn't appear the Kaguya were going to give them a better opportunity. As far as cooperation went, it wasn't everything Hashirama hoped for—but it was __something__.

Touka formed her hands into a seal and melted into the ground.

"I'll follow you underground," her disembodied voice said from under Hashirama's feet, which was rather disconcerting. "See if there isn't a weak spot in their watch."

It wasn't a watch in earnest. There was a handful of Kaguya scattered about the walls, stumbling so badly that Hashirama was silently urging them to fall over. __Go on__, he thought, as one of them strayed close to the edge. __Go on, just a little more to the left__. They kept throwing random kunai at nighttime critters, laughing in loud, obnoxious voices, throwing their heads back to expose wide throats.

Still, they functioned as an unofficial "watch," so they skirted around the edges of a particularly tall hill, careful not to step on any of the multitudes of bones littering the ground.

At one point, Izuna let out a disgusted groan. "Oh, that is horrible. So horrible, so horrible, __so horrible__—" He was scraping his foot off on a sheet of ice. "Let's just wipe them all out, please."

"That's a terrible thing to say," said Hashirama, a bit weaker than he intended.

Izuna's face screwed up in annoyance, an undoubtedly career-ending insult loaded, and was interrupted by Tobirama.

"I see him," he said, sounding very much as though he wished he couldn't. "Around the fire. Step here, you can just see through the compound."

Izuna shoved by him, starting a quick scuffle, and let out a whine. The ease in which Hashirama pulled him away should have been a warning.

Orange bonfire light revealed a figure in a cage, hanging off the ground. Club-like hands were pulled through the bars. They were pasty and white and Hashirama realized with a start that they were casts. He couldn't see Madara's face through the shadows, but he recognized the tattered, dirtied mantle. Bare feet hung out of the bars, bloodied and purple. He could only imagine the horrible injuries that were probably hidden by his mantle, thick and swathing his body as it was.

Then, three Kaguya separated from the rest of the crowd and an icy finger jabbed into Hashirama's stomach. They stopped at the cage and swiped inside of it, the huddled figure within pushing against the other side. Madara's attempts to avoid their grasping fingers were sluggish and weak. Finally, with a laugh that reverberated all the way outside the compound, the tallest of the harassing Kaguya lifted their bottle of wine high—and shattered it over the top of the cage.

"Izuna," said Hashirama, attention fixated on Madara. He was hardly aware of what was coming out of his mouth, his mind slapping together a plan that consisted of distract-and-don't-die. "Can you make a clone?"

"Two," said Izuna. "I could do five, but that leaves me close to empty."

"Push for three," said Hashirama. "Have them distract the Kaguya around the fire. Tobirama, do the same. Touka?"

Touka's voice floated from under him. "Yes?"

"Can you take care of the Kaguya on the northwestern wall?"

"Consider it done."

None of the Kaguya walking the wall noticed the muted bush covering grew around the edges of the compounds, higher than Hashirama was tall. Nor did they notice three figures, along with a mound of soil like a traveling gopher, scurrying down the hill into the bushes. They followed the bush cover around the compound, to the backside where they could hear laughter and fighting.

Hashirama stopped them before they could jump the wall. Izuna was nearly vibrating, chakra lashing out, dampening the bushes around them. Within seconds the tiny leaves were coated in frost. Before Izuna could turn __Hashirama__ into an icicle, he pulled a small bag out of one of his pouches. It was filled with several experimental pills he'd created, with the help of Tobirama, to boost chakra.

"They work," he said, when he saw the doubtful look on Izuna's face. "I've tested them out."

Izuna grimaced regardless as he choked down the pill. Two more were distributed to Tobirama and Touka, before Hashirama swallowed his own. The effects were immediate. Around them, the bush cover grew by an extra three feet. Vines started to crawl up the edges of the compound, before Hashirama dragged in his chakra and forced the plant life to __stop__. Their own cover was going to give them away.

"D'you suppose you could go in there as a great, big bush and they wouldn't notice?" said Izuna, peering through the cracks in the walls. Hulking bodies were visible through them, dancing and sparring to a violent tempo only they could hear.

"I think they'll notice a walking bush," said Hashirama. "Touka—"

"In position," she said. "Ready to knock them out. Think you can grow piles of dung for them to land in?"

"I can't __grow dung__—never mind," sighed Hashirama.

His only signal to start was charging.

Three bounds sent him up the compound walls. Touka's senbon whistled through the night air, lodging in the necks of the roving Kaguya on the walls. They collapsed over sideways, tankards rolling on the ground, leaking mead. None of their fellow clan members noticed.

Hashirama landed in a crouch at the top, scanning the surroundings. A crowd of Kaguya—they were all twisting limbs and shrieking voices, but they hadn't spotted him—there were buildings lit by flurries of yellow light, windows cast in darkness—rows of cages, most of them empty, but the one below—

He dropped down, landing in a patch of tall grasses that sprouted up to greet him.

The tortured groan of rusted, cold metal as Hashirama turned the cage was drowned out by an eruption of shouting from the Kaguya, who'd all stopped dancing. Izuna and Tobirama's clones were put to work. Touka was clinging to the compound wall like a monkey, throwing senbon that picked out Kaguya at random.

A wall of water crashed over the crowd as Tobirama brought out one of his favorite water jutsu. Izuna, who had restrained himself from risking a drop-by to see how Madara was doing, answered in kind. His water jutsu was winding serpent that split into three, spitting out boiling water.

Hashirama's cold, fumbling hands worked on the lock. He could see Madara's dark eyes, disbelief coupling with a heartbreaking sort of relief. The rest of him was still cast in shadows.

Madara's lips were cracked, so when he tried to speak, he winced. His tongue darted out, and Hashirama restrained the medic in himself that said __no, that won't help.__ He always had sleepless bags under his eyes, but they were more pronounced than ever. His face was etched with exhaustion, and he had the look of someone who'd seen something so awful, they couldn't put words to it.

When he spoke, he was hoarse and halting.

"What are you—how did—is that—" He couldn't seem to figure out what he wanted to ask first. "Izuna is here?"

"You know how unstoppable he is," said Hashirama, interjecting every bit of confident cheer he could into his tone. He didn't like the dazedness hadn't left Madara's eyes, even after he started channeling healing chakra into a jutsu.

There were bits of ice stuck in his hair. Hashirama realized with a flash of anger it was from the alcohol broken over the cage. He smelled like the inside of a rotting tavern. When Hashirama finally got the doors of the cage opened, he scrambled to dart out. His faltering, bloodless legs folded under him.

No longer silhouetted by the fire, Hashirama could make out mottled blues and yellows on his face, a swollen lip, and ring of even more bruises around his neck. Forcing down another surge of righteous fury—a sudden urge to go with Izuna's idea and let all the Kaguya __burn__—he guided Madara into the grasses. It was a minor battle to get ahold of Madara's hands.

"Let me see—"

"No, don't bother—"

"We don't have time to argue," said Hashirama, yanking Madara's hands to him and telling himself firmly he would apologize later. He peeled the casts off and hissed. "What did they __do__—no, you don't have to tell me."

Madara, who had opened his mouth, snapped it shut.

Someone had broken his fingers. His knuckles were crushed into shattered pieces that had lodged into his joints. His hands were swollen up so much they didn't very much look like hands anymore.

Madara swayed, despite sitting on the ground. He mouthed a voiceless __"Oh, sages__," and Hashirama could practically see his mind take a sickening drop from Point A to Point No More Jutsu.

"It's fine," said Hashirama, feeling very much __not fine__ and wanting to cry and gather Madara in his arms and burn the Kaguya and do all of that while healing his friend at the same time.

Instead, he had to clamp a hand over Madara's mouth to stop him shrieking when Touka's head popped out of the ground.

"Is he secure?" she said.

Madara jerked his face out of Hashirama's grip. "Who is __that!?__"

"Yep," said Hashirama, giving a watery smile. "I've got him."

"Then, I'll give the signal to head out," she said.

"Who is __she!?"__ said Madara again.

Hashirama nodded to her, before telling Madara emphatically to __calm down__ and __stop arguing__, because he needed to heal Madara's hands. Madara was probably stunned enough that someone had the gall to tell him to __calm down__, or relieved enough to see Hashirama—who hoped it was the later option—not to argue.

The injuries were fairly recent, so it wasn't too much of a hassle to urge the bones back into place, to encourage the tissue to rejoin properly. He would have liked a numbing agent, but they were short on time and Hashirama hadn't thought that far ahead. Resetting bones, even in ideal conditions, was a painful and messy ordeal, but Madara took it with strides that were more concerning than impressive.

They edged back towards the walls, trying to keep low to hide the green light of Hashirama's healing jutsu. Broken skin was patching back together, slowly but surely. Madara flexed his fingers.

It would have been a seamless operation, had one extra component been taken into account. None of them were to blame for it. Hashirama had no previous knowledge of the Kaguya ranks other than "Big, Bigger, Biggest," and had not spared the prospect of Kaguya children a first thought, let alone a second one. Most children by that time of night would have been asleep. The noise of the partying adults wouldn't have kept them up forever and, if they'd put up with the noise all their life—and they had—they would have grown desensitized to it.

There was one such Kaguya. He wasn't quite a child anymore, but he wasn't an adult, either. Bones were weaved into his pale hair, a platter held in his hands. He'd watched the entire operation.

Hashirama felt eyes and whirled around to see Kaguya Youdai staring at him.

"Oh, not you," said Madara with a faint groan. "Just let me leave. Seriously, just __let me go__—"

"Why would you want to leave?" said Youdai. "We were feeding you and everything!"

Disbelief and rising panic sent Madara's voice shrill. "__That__—" he stabbed a hand at the cage, "—is __not where people go!__ And you weren't feeding me!"

Hashirama drew his broadsword, tugging Madara back towards the wall. He leveled the sword with Youdai.

"Stay back," he said. "Just let us go. This is all wrong—you have to know it, right? Your clan is going to destroy itself."

"My clan values strength," said Youdai, but he wasn't talking to Hashirama. His brown eyes were on Madara. "You were surviving so well. Why give up now?"

"That was __torture__—"

Youdai grabbed at the back of his neck. He pulled up what looked like a long staff of white, until Hashirama saw flecks of dark blood and stretching skin. A long ribbon of bones was torn free—his spinal cord.

He blocked Hashirama's slash to his throat and bellowed, "THEY'RE ESCAPING! __OVER HERE! THEY'RE ESCA__—"

The sudden yank of Madara jumping away from Hashirama's grip sent him wheeling sideways, followed a second later by the snap-click-__explosion__ of a fire jutsu.

As the flames billowed out, Hashirama had just enough time to hope Youdai was destroyed by the jutsu, before three ashen ribs were hurtling toward him. He blocked two—dodged the last—and Madara had disappeared from his side. He wasn't given a chance to even worry. Youdai was attacking, the ends of his hair on fire, spine whip lashing around to snag Hashirama around the waist.

He was not quite the acrobat Madara was at backflipping around the battlefield, but he dodged out of the way of the spine and lashed down at Youdai's head. He was blocked by another rib. As the impact of his sword against bone rattled through Hashirama's forearms, he wondered if there was a limit to how many ribs Youdai could use.

Madara reappeared in the curls of smoke remaining from his fire jutsu, swooping low at Youdai's feet to knock him off balance.

It was all the distraction Hashirama needed to get out of range, slide his sword back into its sheathe, and clap his hands together. The gentle coaxes of Hashirama's everyday usage paled in comparison to when he reached down—deep down, where the earthworms crawled and the ruins of an older world lay—and dragged the mokuton up with clawed fingers. It was __his__ and he was __its__ and together they were something else entirely.

When the branches had wound around him, bracketing him like bones of his own, he felt powerful.

Youdai took one look at Senju Hashirama, his suffocating aura of power and the way the world seemed to be __writhing__ around him, and did the unbelievable. And by unbelievable, it was the rational decision.

He turned tail and __ran__.

The branches around Hashirama drooped in surprise. He turned to Madara, but he was eyeing the sword strapped to Hashirama's waist in consideration.

"Did he just—?"

"Yep," said Madara. Then, sure enough, he pointed at the sword. "Can I have that?"

Hashirama didn't reply. Something was moving towards them from the other side of the compound that demanded his attention. It drew Madara's attention as well, so much that Hashirama knew whoever was approaching was bad news. Madara took a half step back, faltering on a leg that must have been injured.

"Clan Head?" said Hashirama, unsure of the answer he preferred. He didn't want to fight the Clan Head, but the thought of there being a Kaguya shinobi so powerful who __wasn't__ the Clan Head, historically the strongest, was unnerving.

A figure in beige and violet had already landed before Madara even shook his head.

"No," he said, as the Kaguya man straightened, long white hair falling down his back, a rib of bones forming around his neck and a long spinal cord lashing. "That's Nikao."

The branches curled over them, their offensiveness melting into a tell-tale defensive guard. Vines crawled through the air towards Madara, positioned to encircle him—to drag him back and carry him away. Hashirama hadn't told them to do that. He hadn't moved the branches overhead, either.

It was a discordant note in his connection with the mokuton that shook him soul deep.

The Kaguya swept brown eyes over them, shifted his grip on the spine, __blinked__—

There was a flash of crimson armor and equally red eyes, Izuna landing feet-first on Nikao's face—springing out fast a rabbit and kicking him again.

"For you!" said Izuna with a cheeky grin, tossing Madara a sword and a weapons pouch. "Don't lose these ones!"

"Don't steal them," said Madara, though his eyes were locked on Nikao, who regained his equilibrium almost as soon as he'd lost it.

Izuna darted passed them, gave Madara a push on the shoulder to reaffirm he was real, and then rejoined Tobirama and Touka in the fray.

"Bold and bright, as expected of an Uchiha!" bellowed Nikao exuberantly, passing over Hashirama without a second look. He was looking Madara up and down. "A rescue! I would assume he is your brother? Let us commence our battle—I would like to test his resolve next to yours, Uchiha Madara."

Madara's snarl didn't even sound human. One moment he was standing next to Hashirama, the next he'd jumped off one of Hashirama's branches, brandishing the weapons Izuna had given him. He fought with a frenzied urgency that ignited something in Hashirama, as well. If someone had threated one of his brothers, he would have reacted the exact same way.

The fight changed. It became all too obvious that Madara never intended to kill Youdai. That had been a slightly lethal sparring match, for better or worse.

Roots squirmed out of the ground and flowed after Hashirama. He vaulted high, as Madara swept low, aiming for two different spots on Nikao—who blocked them both without having to move a muscle. Fingerlike ribs unfurled from his neck and laced over his head, blocking Hashirama.

His spine snatched Madara around the waist and flung him bodily into a nearby building.

There was a roar in Hashirama's head that blocked out his mind. If he had to put a sound to a growing legion of trees, that would be it. When the vines slithered and curled around the Kaguya's ankles without him __quite__ willing it to happen, he didn't stop to think about it. Purple and black blossoms opened, flowers that sagged under the weight of their own petals. A rotting sweetness punctured the air.

He'd never made toxic flowers. Deadly as they were beautiful, every strike of Nikao's bone weapons crushed them. Their sweet toxin painted Nikao's bones and seared into the tiniest nicks and cuts Hashirama landed.

Nikao could have killed Madara with the bone grip around his waist. That was terrifying enough, but it was the way Madara cried out in something close to __fear__, that sent Hashirama careening off that edge. It was not a look belonging on Madara's face.

A part of him that was earthquake and landslide wanted to bind Nikao to the ground, let the vines wrap tender fingers around his neck and __squeeze__ until he breathed his last.

He didn't follow the brutal instinct, as a voice blasted through the cloud around his mind.

"__Hashirama!"__ Madara was yelling, navigating around branches—Nikao had fallen, dead or unconscious, Hashirama was unaware—and lurched dangerously to the side. "__Stop whatever you're doing with those flowers!"__

The flowers had bloomed even further, lifting their heads to the starless sky above them. A grayish purple, dimly glowing pollen drifted through the air. Even as Hashirama watched it, his unusually slow mind connecting the dots, Madara reached him.

"I can't believe this," said Madara, hooking an arm around Hashirama's, keeping one hand clamped over his mouth and nose. "You're going __kill__ me on accident on your rescue mission, you great big __idiot__—"

Around the bonfire, Tobirama and Izuna were running circles around the Kaguya. Tobirama zoomed in and struck at one—and he was gone again, replaced by Izuna, three kunai flying towards another unsuspecting Kaguya—and then he vanished and Tobirama engaged them again. They were trading off, striking quick to agitate, but careful to stay out of grabbing range.

Touka was giving them the cover they needed with senbon. The random needles jabbing into pressure points didn't allow the Kaguya enough time to form a pattern to Tobirama and Izuna's attacks.

"At least someone's got their head on right," Madara blustered in his hoarse, cracking voice. It wasn't quite convincing, and even less so when his leg gave out.

Hashirama was left supporting him. He wrapped Madara's arm around his shoulder, encircling his hand around Madara's wrist, and wondered if he'd always been so thin.

With a hand signal, Touka knew it was time to leave. Hashirama pulled Madara into a cropping to tall grasses that had overtaken the boundaries of the bonfire area. It was tall enough that it obscured their escape, though the Kaguya put up chase with shouts of excitement.

"__Hand__," said Madara.

Hashirama held out one of his hands, startled. "What's wrong with—"

Madara __leaped__, straight up in the air, and bounded off Hashirama's hand as though it was springboard. He hooked a leg around one of Hashirama's branches. He was facing the Kaguya behind them, weaving a hand sign—Hashirama quailed, thinking of the injured leg Madara was going to strain—and then the world exploded. The winter chill peeled away as heat __scorched__, turning the world to fire and smoke.

A shockwave of dry air left Hashirama standing there, stunned. There was a flicker of a smile in the orange-cast shadows above him, firelight in dark eyes. His breath caught.

They were running up the compound walls a moment later. Hashirama knew the chakra pills had to be wearing off, but he felt as though he'd swallowed ten of them. A renewed energy was buzzing in his chest. It rubbed off everywhere around him, vines overtaking the walls and growing wide leaves the size of heart-shaped shields. He put an extra boost in his last step that was entirely unnecessary, reaching back to give Madara a hand.

Madara, who eyed him as though he'd started speaking in tongues, breezed by him without taking his hand.

Pouting felt like an excellent response, but Hashirama wasn't given the chance. A Kaguya on the wall gave an exclamation of surprise, jumping to their feet. It seemed one of the guard on the wall had woken up at some point, but decided to nap out of the night a little longer on their back. Hashirama and Madara moved like opposite sides of the same coin, swiping over and diving under, and the Kaguya had no time for regrets.

Before Hashirama knew it, ice was crunching under his feet. Voices were screaming behind them. Smoke and embers drifted over the Kaguya Compound walls in large plumes, swept on a cold wind around the strange, glowing pollen of Hashirama's toxic flowers.

They ran from the sounds of the Kaguya's rage over the uneven, frozen tundra. There was clumsy abandon in their gaits, scrambling over boulders and slipping on sheets of black ice, that betrayed their blind desperation to __get away__.

It was Izuna who stopped them first. He broke their uneven, tedious formation and dodged behind a gnarled tree. Madara was pulled after him.

"Are you alright?" said Izuna in a rush. With the adrenaline of battle draining away, so was his confidence. He looked exhausted. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Madara.

Hashirama had started talking at the same time. "That leg's giving you issues. Let me see—"

The warm, familiar blanket of healing chakra flowed to Hashirama's hands. He shuffled on his knees towards Madara, who scooted back so quickly one might assume Hashirama was holding scorpions. Not to be put off, Hashirama lunged after him—he was used to Madara's song and dance with healing—only to be shoved back by Izuna, who glared at him.

"He said no," said Izuna.

"He is __injured__," said Hashirama.

Madara glowered. "He's right here."

Tobirama peered around the tree at them.

"We can't stay here forever. The Kaguya will still be looking for us."

Tobirama was ignored.

"Do you want Madara walking on a bad leg?" said Hashirama incredulously, because __he__ didn't want that, and he wasn't even Madara's brother. They were best of friends, but Izuna was Madara's __family__. He'd lost his mind when Madara was taken.

Izuna swelled up, splotches of red appearing on his cheeks, and Madara cut in quickly.

"Just leave it be," he said. "It'll be suspicious if I go back in good condition."

Hashirama sucked in a breath to protest, but Madara plowed on.

"They're not expecting me alive," he said. "Izuna's not a healer. Even if the Kaguya had healers—"

He didn't have to finish. The Kaguya wouldn't heal a prisoner.

"I know what you're doing is __very__ important," said Tobirama with biting sarcasm, "but the Kaguya are, as I said earlier, still out here."

The reminder of Kaguya searching for them was a jackrabbit kick to Hashirama's ribs, but for all they needed to get away, he couldn't stop watching Madara. His lips were scabbed and his smile was bittersweet. In the shadow of the tree, his eyes were hooded, reflecting only the dullest light.

Spurred by instinct, Hashirama reached out for his hand. His birdlike thinness was starvation that went back farther than his three days captivity.

"This is—This is—" Hashirama's chest went tight trying to think of what __this was__. "It shouldn't be like this—"

"But it is," said Madara calmly.

"It __shouldn't be__," said Hashirama, remembering laughter ringing over an enormous valley. He felt strangely as though he was slipping down a mountain he didn't know he was climbing. "I want to __help__."

"Anija," said Tobirama, dropping down to their level, putting a leather-clad hand on Hashirama's shoulder. "You can help them by getting Madara home as quick as possible."

Hashirama had no idea why that, of all things, burst the dam on the tears he'd been fighting back. For once, no one made fun of him for it.

__One day__, he thought, as he scrubbed tears off his cheeks, they would look back at that day and laugh. __They were so young__, future Hashirama and Madara would say. They would have that conversation overlooking the home they'd built together. Hashirama was holding out for the chance he wouldn't be crying, but not too much.

* * *

Murky outlines of trees were just starting to become visible as they reached the central forests. A peachy glow at the horizon made the snow luminous. Not long after, Hashirama heard the coursing of Nakano River and knew it was time they went their separate ways. Touka took one look at them and a longsuffering tiredness flitted over her face, before she excused herself to check the compound.

"I want to make sure no one's there to catch us sneaking in," she said, though Hashirama suspected she wanted to escape the company. As she left, he could have sworn she muttered, "__Teenagers."__

"She does realize she's a teenager, right?" said Izuna quietly, unable to muster the energy to be offended.

Tobirama leaned against a boulder and groaned.

"She thinks she's above it all," he said, before going through what looked like an intense mental battle, and pushed off the boulder. "We've got to go."

He was right, of course. One day, Hashirama was going to have to remind him not to let it get to his head.

The urge to crush Madara into a hug burned him. The effort of restraint killed him a little on the inside. Hugs always felt rejuvenating and he would argue their healing properties until he was blue in the face. However, between the little birds that had flown back into Hashirama's gut and Madara's bristling that always made him look like an angry porcupine, it was safer not to risk a hug.

"Let's never have to rescue each other again," said Hashirama instead, offering two fingers in the way they always did before and after a spar. "We make a good team, though."

Madara's bandaged fingers curled around his. He couldn't seem to meet his eyes. The nippy air had turned his cheeks pink, easier to see in the lightening morning.

He mumbled something like, "Yeah," or maybe, "Weather," and Hashirama translated it to, "I completely agree, we do work together very well." That was his favorite translation of the mumble-speak Madara sometimes lapsed to.

"We should go," said Izuna, whose narrowed eyes were darting between his brother and Hashirama. "Before both our families get suspicious."

Of course, he was right. Butsuma would only take the good old fashioned "out late training" excuse so many times before he started suspecting something else was going on. That didn't stop Hashirama watching Madara vanish into the trees.

When Madara and Izuna were out of sight, he turned to meet Tobirama's agitated glare.

"What?" he said innocently.

"__Bad__ idea," said Tobirama. "That is a __bad idea__—get it out of your head."

"What idea?" said Hashirama, only halfway honest, because he had a feeling he knew what Tobirama was cluing into. It was not something he particularly wanted to talk about, unless it involved hot chocolate and tears.

Tobirama was still hissing at him like a leaky facet when they reached the Senju Compound. He kept going on about Madara and Uchiha and Senju and generational conflicts and other such things that meant it was a __bad idea__. He couldn't seem to bring himself to actually __say__ the bad idea aloud. He was still of the age where he thought things like handholding was a mystery and kissing was nothing short of travesty.

It worked out for Hashirama, who held onto his polite confusion. He greeted Senju clan members as though he'd been there all night. Most of them seemed surprised to see him greet the morning in armor, but were preoccupied with morning duties.

One of the Elders, an old woman called Ran, was hanging ornate lanterns. She paused with her gangly, liver spotted arms in the air when she spotted him, the orange and green lantern listing sideways. Oil dripped onto the ground.

"You're awake?" she said.

Hashirama gave a smile that was all teeth. "As I ever was!"

"So early?" she said, squinting at the sky as though it had tricked her.

"You know me!" Hashirama laughed uproariously, pointing fingers at her and bolting into another alley.

Walking besides him, Tobirama rolled his eyes.

They dropped off their gear just as the hum of movement was starting up in earnest. Vapor from scented candles drifted upwards, turning a layer of air over the compound a dreamy blue and purple. Golden and white flowers that Hashirama had grown earlier that year were blooming. Food was cooking, a mouthwatering aroma that was almost enough to tear through his haze of exhaustion. It wasn't quite enough, and Hashirama was more than relieved to trudge into Clan Head's family house.

He couldn't stop thinking of the __bad idea__. To him, it sounded like a very __good__ idea. It made butterflies in his stomach, something new and scary and __exciting__. He wanted to bottle the feeling up and save it. He wanted to share it with Madara and hope and pray he felt the same. But that—now __that__ was scary.

Maybe he wouldn't tell Madara.

The butterflies did a complicated little aerial formation in his stomach at the thought of it—before he walked into his room and their wings were plucked off and the feeling decayed.

Butsuma stood by his window. He looked very unhappy. The light turned his face into unforgiving angles, casting his eyes into dark hollows that hid what he was thinking.

He spoke with the easiness of breakfast chitchat. It was so idle it could only be strategic.

"You've been leaving frequently."

Small talk was not a language belonging to Butsuma's directory. He didn't ask about the weather, or how one was feeling after an illness. He sent troops into battle. He organized wartime strategies. He smoked out traitors.

Inexplicably, Hashirama felt like a traitor.

"Training," said his mouth, while his brain raced. His bed was untouched, his books in place, there was a tapping of a woodpecker somewhere outside, he couldn't stop flicking his fingers.

"All night?"

"It was a new soldier pill," said Hashirama, taking the pouch out. There were two left. "It—It kept me up all night. Tobirama wanted to try them out, too, so we… blew off the energy sparring."

"All night."

"All night," said Hashirama, and then remembered the quicksilver grin on Madara's face that seemed a lot more dashing in his memory, and gathered his courage. "Why are you acting all suspicious? You should be glad we're working so hard."

"Do I have reason to be suspicious?" said Butsuma.

"__No!"__ Hashirama burst out, a little too desperately.

A shadowed glare kept him petrified there a moment longer. Then, with the deliberation of a moving mountain, Butsuma walked passed him. It was such a benign thing, to leave the room, and yet—

"I see," said Butsuma.

Hashirama very much wished he knew what Butsuma saw.


	7. The Song of Yesterday and Today

**Chapter Seven**

**The Song of Yesterday and Today**

An empty pyre would have burned for Madara, had he failed to return within a week. Plans for a pyre were already in motion, not a day after he went missing, upon the news a group of Kaguya were spotted in the settlement he'd gone to for supplies.

He was never going to come back, the Uchiha knew. No one came back from the Kaguya, once they were captured. They would be dead, and the dead had a habit of staying that way—future notwithstanding.

A commemoration similar to that of Naka and Hikaku's father would have commenced. There would have been drinks and food, and then moving on. The point of funerals was to eventually move on, after all. Slowly, quickly, whether it took an age or a heartbeat, it would happen. It was _important_ to move on—imperative, even.

Not, the Uchiha suspected, that there would be much _moving on_ from that particularly family. Tajima was not known for accepting loss gracefully, whether it be a sparring match or the death of a loved one.

Years ago, Tajima had lost his wife. Perhaps, some reasoned, it would not have been so difficult if it was a quick death. Perhaps, if he'd never seen what was left, it wouldn't have been so terrible. The death throes had lasted weeks; it was always known Masami would never return, but Tajima had hoped. That little thread of hope had strangled Tajima and destroyed him.

He disappeared into the mountains for weeks. Everyone assumed he had died up there, until he returned, haggard and exhausted. He'd gathered up the clan, taken his place at the head as though he never left, and ordered the Uchiha away from the central forests.

For the next few years, they lived in relative peace in the grasslands. If only they had stayed in the grasslands, whispered a daring few. Before it could turn into a roar, the whispers were dampened by quieter voices.

Hands pried sticks and kindling from the arms of Uchiha already starting a pyre for a boy missing only two days. The Elders took up post by the clan head tent to keep away the nosier clan members. Naori started volunteering for many of the small duties—carrying messages, filtering the concerns from the accusations for Tajima, number crunching—and she became known as an unofficial assistant.

"She's setting herself up for a nice, cushy advisor role."

"What part of being an advisor to Tajima-sama strikes you as cushy?"

Dinner had rolled around, two medic-nin—the third had fallen ill—doling out food portions to the quarantined Uchiha, when the clan as a whole noticed. It wasn't a slow, dawning realization. One person saw, and then they all did. And then Tajima did.

"When was the last time anyone saw Izuna?"

There were certain powers allotted to the Elders that other Uchiha didn't have, unrelated to their age. One power they _lacked_ was the right to make the Clan Head step down. Never had they been more agreed on one subject: They needed that power.

Scouts were sent out to search the forests, while Tajima dropped on one of the logs around the bonfire and didn't get up again. He stared unblinkingly at the ground, as though something vital was plucked from him.

Nothing changed until around midnight, the fires having burned low and sent a deep chill into the air. A flare went up from the forest, precaution abandoned. Tajima and the Elders had shot off into the forest in that direction, dodged between trees with every bit of dexterity the Elder's ages—and Tajima's composure—and allowed. Snow was scattered in the air in flurries, as they took to the branches, drifting from clouds crawling over a peach-gold dawn.

"Tajima-sama!" cried one of the scouts—tall, lanky, a shell of shiny brown hair. It was Naka. "They're here—we found them—Tajima-sama, they're _alive!"_

Standing in the snowy meadow, hanging onto each other with the last scraps of their strength, they looked wearily triumphant. Izuna had a handful of bruises, was clad in a set of armor no one recognized, with two new sets of weapons—and really, trust him to come back with souvenirs. Madara was worse for wear. He could hardly stand anymore, listing sideways off Izuna's shoulder, keeping himself upright through only incredible personal effort.

The Elders always knew he'd was made of stronger material than the average shinobi. Both of them were left to question if he was made of the material of mortals at all. Not for his strength, or the fact he was still conscious, or that he could keep his eyes open at all—but that he was _alive_. The scouts seemed to think something along the same lines. Once the joy of having found them eased into reflection, they had side-eyed Madara cautiously. Hokibo was better at hiding it with his old age. Hikari thought they really ought not to think at all, if they couldn't be bothered to _hide it_.

Izuna staggered through calf-deep snow and said, "Father."

His voice faltered. It was not easy for a child to look into the eyes of a parent whose face was neither joyful, nor relieved.

Tajima cut across the meadow, and it could have to strike them or commend them.

Madara was pushing away from Izuna, scraping and clawing for consciousness—and he stopped, when Tajima dropped to his knees.

Comfort was not a language that came easily to them. Not a single one of them. But when he wound his arms around his sons' shoulders, that was all it could have been. It was a clumsy, desperate sort of thing. Shaking hands, all hard angles that were honed for battle and had never accepted or given comfort since time immemorable. It was discomfiting in the way setting a bone was painful—broken, put back together, and one could only hope it healed back stronger.

It only last a handful of seconds. One incredibly long, shuddering breath—Madara placed his hands awkwardly on Tajima's shoulders, while Izuna pressed his cheek to leather and armor with eagerness speaking of so many sleepless nights without a parent.

Only after trying to communicate did one realize they had forgotten how.

* * *

Somehow, the first nightmare to strike came as a terrible surprise. Madara had plenty of experience with nightmares, but they usually involved suffocating caverns and bloody moons, not the edges of a cage he knew wasn't there.

The outline of the tent walls, blurred by darkness, collapsed. It made his stomach lurch nauseatingly and he flung himself out of the tent.

Crisp winter air flowed into his lungs and a tangle unknotted in his chest. His stomach stopped roiling. A wide sky full of stars glimmered down at him. The camp was eerily silent. Everyone had long since gone to bed, with the exception of a few scouts left in the surrounding trees. A hazy blue smoke was still trailing up from the old bonfire. He was entirely alone.

Night was the only time he was as such. Well-wishers, people he'd never spoken to in the past, let alone knew the names of, would stop to ask over his health.

There were smiles that even managed to reach their eyes, though that had more to do with the steadily improving health of the quarantined Uchiha. It seemed the worse of the illness had passed, a flush retaking their cheeks that was from health and not fever. The fact Madara had been returned safely to the clan—alive, if not in perfect condition—was icing on the cake they hadn't known they'd live to eat.

In the sharp relief of their attention, he'd taken to wandering the camp at night. He liked taking walks at nights for the quiet, but feared it for the same reason. Thoughts were an easy thing to fall into and harder to leave. He once thought the memories were a chasm he fell into—until he realized _he_ was the chasm. He could just as simply climb out of it, as he could exit his own body.

Usually, he made every effort not to think about everything that could happen in the future. It didn't matter, he rationalized. His plan to prevent it all was foolproof, because there was no need to worry about the Uchiha in that village, when the Uchiha were never part of that village.

Only, there were moments where he _wondered_. He still dreamed. And, when he woke up with the fleeting terror he'd never escaped the Kaguya, his thoughts raced around his rationale with snake-like speed to hiss at him:

_No lone shinobi need risk his neck for food in a village._

Hashirama's village had wanted for plenty of things, but food was never one of them. Neither was clean water. They'd also had plenty of roofs over their head and _no Kaguya Clan_.

The longer he watched the full moon, the more it reminded him of the bone-white hair of the shikotsumyaku-users, so Madara turned at long last to go back into the tent. It wasn't until he laid down in the blankets, a chill rolling off his body in waves, that he realized how cold he'd gotten.

Blankets rustled across from him in the darkness, meaning Izuna had woken from a dream. Sleep had come sparingly for them both, lately. Izuna had worried through the first few nights after Madara's return, as though the Kaguya might steal into the tent and carry him away.

That worry had passed quickly enough, replaced by an increased workload piled onto Izuna's shoulders by Tajima and the Elders. A good portion of the work used to be Madara's, siphoned away from him while he healed from his injuries.

He found the gesture very unnecessary and Izuna wasn't above agreeing.

"I'm not going to be clan head," said Izuna one afternoon, dropping a pile of paperwork at Madara's feet. "And your hands aren't broken anymore—so, help me."

"You don't have to wait until your hair is falling out to ask me," said Madara, even as he curled his upper lip at the stack of parchment. "Can you do the cursive ones?"

"I hate the cursive ones."

"I can't _read_ the cursive ones."

Izuna planted himself on the ground like an angry gorilla. "It'll be good practice for when you're clan head."

"When _I'm_ clan head," said Madara, pushing the cursive reports away from himself, toward Izuna, who eyed them like a particularly disgusting beetle, "I will not do the cursive reports. Whoever I _order to do the reports_ will do them."

"Great, we'll be stuck with a dictator," said Izuna. He started rocking on his heels, throwing contemplative looks at the tent flap, as though wondering if he could get away with making a run for it. "Just don't make me do it."

The last team of scouts to return from a nearby settlement had arrived with a couple pilfered books written by an archaeologist called Hashiba Shinji. For reasons that alluded Madara, they had hooked tendrils of curiosity in Izuna's brain and he didn't appear to be losing interest anytime soon. Nothing quite compared to the confused irritation Madara felt when he commented the breakfast was very good that morning, and Izuna found some way to link _breakfast_ to whatever story he read about old civilizations. If Madara had a ryo for every time the name Hashiba Shinji was mentioned in the following weeks, he would be able to pay off the Uchiha Clan's debt to Sora-ku in one fell swoop.

Between the side-eyes of people who still whispered about his surviving the Kaguya Clan, the Elders' determination to keep him close at hand—he wasn't _fragile_ and he wished they wouldn't treat him as such—and the way Tajima didn't seem to know what to do with him anymore, he was in a permanently foul mood. He wasn't comfortable risking a visit to Nakano River, either. Naka, Naori, and Hikaku fancied themselves personal guards. Hikaku had the good graces to pretend he wasn't doing exactly what he knew he was doing. Naori, on the other hand, had a way of wielding her glare in a way that made it clear he was being _entirely_ unreasonable for wanting _personal space_.

Naka was another thing altogether. He had changed in the past few weeks, becoming a special kind of nuisance. If _aggravation_, as in the abstract concept of _aggravation_, was reborn on the mortal plane, in a mortal body, it would look _exactly_ like Naka.

"Here you go!" said Naka, holding a bowl of soup just a hair out of Madara's reach. He had sprouted another head in height _at least_ in the past few weeks, and lorded it over everyone. He was one of the tallest Uchiha in the clan.

Madara would kick him, if he knew Naka wouldn't pretend to accidentally slosh broth over him. He carried his bowl of soup to the bonfire, where Izuna sat reading.

"It's good to see he's cheered up," said Izuna, without taking his eyes off the book.

Madara glared at him, though considering he couldn't see him, it was ineffectual.

"If _that's_ cheerful, I don't want to see him when he really wants to annoy."

Izuna gave a halfhearted mumble in reply, and Madara turned to sulk over his bowl of soup.

The constant overcast exacerbated his mood. Somehow, every year, he managed to forget the gloomiest parts of the year weren't before, or even during, winter. It was the period as winter melted, turning the sky the same grimy, soupy gray as the food his taste buds had become desensitized to.

He was getting restless. Every second and third look of the other Uchiha kicked a hornets nest in his head. He needed to move and do _something_, but for all he was ready, no one else seemed to believe it.

One rainy morning, his temper snapped. He took a step out of the tent, right into a puddle that soaked through his sandals. Birds were chirping, obscenely happy. He could hear Naka whistling somewhere in the camp.

"Don't do it," said Izuna, trudging behind him in the forest. "It's too soon. Father is suspicious."

Madara wrapped his cloak around his shoulders tighter and scowled at the path before him. It wasn't a path in earnest, winding and nonsensical in a way that spoke of deer passing through the area. He still remembered it from autumn. The path was an attempt to keep Izuna off his tail.

"It's raining, anyway," said Izuna. "They won't be there."

"You don't know Hashirama," said Madara.

"He might not be there!" said Izuna.

"Then, I'll come back tomorrow," said Madara.

"That's so—just send a letter!"

Madara whipped a branch covered in the slushed remains of ice behind him.

"I can't send a _letter_," he said. "Talk about _risk_. How'll it look like if I start getting weird letters?"

"No one pays that much attention to the post," said Izuna. "Besides—just get control over the aviary and you don't have to worry about it."

Madara opened his mouth to reply, cuttingly, that he couldn't just _wrest control of the aviary_ from the person already in charge. And then he remembered he was the son of the clan head and could do exactly that.

"You could read _everyone's_ mail," said Izuna, a glint of dangerous excitement in his eyes. "Imagine what you could _do_ with that much blackmail."

"Guess who I'm never putting in charge of the aviary," said Madara dryly. "Weasel."

"I'll tell Hashirama what your name really means," said Izuna. "Don't think I won't_, spot."_

They walked the rest of the way to Nakano River in a chilly silence that had nothing to do with the weather. Sure enough, it was bereft of Senju, be it enemy or friend. It was the same when they returned the next day, as well as the next three days afterward. The temperature of the days steadily increased—only to plummet one night that turned all the melted snow to black ice—and then skyrocketed again into another drizzly, miserable downpour of rain.

A whole week later, there was finally a change. Sunlight broke through the clouds in fractures of light.

"Ah, the legend, the myth," said Izuna, on their eighth consecutive trip to Nakano River in a row. "Blue sky. I almost forgot what it looked like."

Madara was interrupted before he could reply by the sight of figures sitting at the river. Trust them to wait until the first sunny day to make it. All his frustration at the passing weeks melted off him when he caught sight of Hashirama, who had already seen him coming—or maybe Tobirama had alerted him—and starting waving enthusiastically.

They crossed the river in two chakra-infused bounds, as Hashirama leapt to his feet and ran at Madara fast enough that he fully anticipated a hug that would knock him clean off his feet.

He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Hashirama drew short inches from him, hands hovering by his arms, as though he was unsure touch was acceptable. Madara had groused over his touchiness, but that never stopped him in the past.

"You look—healed good!" said Hashirama, and immediately winced. "You healed up well."

"Smooth," said Izuna, before heaving the sack of books he'd carried on his shoulder the whole way there. "I'll leave you two in your natural habitat."

While Madara and Hashirama were reduced to spluttering, he beckoned the other Senju brothers to another boulder. He dropped the sack full of books on it.

"You three, get over here. I've got some stuff to show you."

Kawarama picked up a book with a painting of human bones on the cover, looking utterly fascinated.

Human bones was a topic Madara had been hoping to avoid. The unwanted questions, concerned looks from fellow Uchiha, were tiring enough. He didn't want to have to endure it from Hashirama and his brothers, too.

When he noticed Hashirama looking over his shoulder at Izuna's stack of books in mild curiosity, Madara as noisily as he could manage, and sent it careening over the river's surface. It skipped twice and sank to the bottom.

He noticed Hashirama peering over his shoulder at the stack of books with mild curiosity. Madara swooped down, noisily as possible, grabbed a rock, and sent it careening over the river's surface. It skipped twice and sank to the bottom.

The distraction turned out to be bafflingly unnecessary. Hashirama took one look at the book in Kawarama's hands, then turned back to the river with renewed focus that was a little too determined to be natural. It seemed as though Madara wasn't the only one turned off by human bones.

"Like _this_," said Hashirama, throwing another rock. "Let me show you—"

The tactile hands were back. Madara focused on the rock, because he didn't want to think about the nicks and scars on Hashirama's hands, oddly complimentary with his callouses. Or the fact he'd grown taller—again. And his voice was getting deeper.

_Hands_, he reminded himself, then started. No—it was the rock he was focusing on. The rock.

"Got that?" said Hashirama.

Madara hadn't heard a single word.

"Of course," he said, a hot flush crawling up his neck.

That was when he noticed the furtive glares Tobirama kept throwing Hashirama every three seconds. He was vehement enough that he kept getting sidetracked from his book, which earned a disgruntled huff from Izuna.

"What's his problem?" said Madara, leaping to latch onto any subject other than rock throwing.

Hashirama's face spasmed into stillness the way it did whenever Madara managed to stumble onto a sensitive topic.

"Dunno," he said, wringing his fingers. "Could be anything."

They ambled to the edge of the river, where bits of debris from the thawing ice was drifting down the gray rapids. Occasional bursts of blinding light reflected off the surface, whenever the sun filtered through the gray overcast. Madara watched a particularly large branch bob down the river, while desperately searching for something to say. He was acquainted to awkward silence well enough, but it rarely had anything to do with Hashirama.

He couldn't help stealing another sideways look. Hashirama's dark hair straggled to his collar. Madara had the sudden urge to check his own hair to see if it had grown so much, but the river was too fast-moving for him to see more than a warped, flickering reflection of himself.

Sparring popped into mind, a momentary burst of inspiration. Relieved not to scramble for conversation starters anymore, Madara spun with a challenge on his lips. Hashirama chose that same second to turn as well.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Madara's exclamation of, "_Best two of three!"_ died before he could get a syllable edgewise. He squinted at Hashirama, who was picking at a scab on his knuckle.

"What for?" said Madara, scraping his memory—the present one; he didn't want to go to the other one—for the cause of Hashirama's frown. He only succeeded in remembering he never properly thanked Hashirama for going out of his way to save him. Izuna couldn't have done it on his own, but that wouldn't have stopped him from trying. What would have happened then wasn't worth imagining.

The ground rustled under his feet. He looked down as Hashirama stooped to pick up a growing vine, breaking it off and forming it into resembled a flower crown. Tiny flowers bloomed and Madara realized a flower crown was exactly what it was.

"I lost control of mokuton," said Hashirama, as even more flowers sprouted around him. They were purple and stood up to his ankle.

Behind them, Madara could hear Tobirama let out a groan. Even Itama sounded put off as he said, just loud enough to carry, "Oh, he's still making those grow?"

Madara remembered the strange, luminous flowers from the night he was rescued. They had released a deadly, toxic pollen into the air. It put all the Kaguya in the area to sleep, which was well and good, but it also almost put Madara and the rescue team to sleep, too.

"It's no big deal," he said, unable to stand the sight of Hashirama's mopey face another second. "Really, it's fine. I'm sure it happens to everyone."

That would have been a halfway decent placation, if Hashirama wasn't the only mokuton user in his clan. He had no way of knowing if it was normal. Madara braced himself for another meltdown, but as it turned out, Hashirama wasn't nearly so touchy about his kekkei genkai. He beamed in response and Madara realized it was his turn. He needed to thank Hashirama for saving him.

It might have come as a surprise—but, more than likely it didn't—that Madara didn't often say _thank you_. Or even thanks. He mumbled something noncommittal when meals were passed around, or when the medics patched him up, and that was it. He said it to Izuna sometimes and he'd said it to the Elders and Naori, because the three of them were sticklers for propriety. Blaming his lack of manners was too easy, he knew. The issue, whittled down to the truth, had a lot more to do with the person he was speaking with.

Maybe, if Hashirama turned around and stopped smiling at him, and his eyes weren't so warm, it would have been easier. Hashirama wasn't going to turn around on telepathic demand, though. Madara was left, for all intents and purposes, mute.

"You in there?"

Hashirama waved a tentative hand in front of his face.

And that was a language Madara spoke.

"Mada—"

"BEST TWO OF THREE!"

"_What?_"

It was worth noting that Madara and Hashirama didn't always operate on the same wavelength.

For that reason, when Madara charged him fist-leading, Hashirama wasn't expecting it and wasn't _quite_ fast enough blocking. He fumbled, accidentally smacking himself in the face with his own fist when Madara jumped at him again with a roundhouse kick.

The moment was rounded off spectacularly when he tripped over one of his roots and fell back into the river with a splash that sent freezing cold water flying. A couple droplets spattered over Madara's face and, in the time it took him to register the cold, Hashirama had rocketed out of the water to dry land.

He huddled on the ground, his pout back in full.

"Why are you so mean?" he said.

Madara gaped at him in confusion.

"Why didn't you block!?" he yelled, thoroughly resenting the stab of guilt he felt. "I gave you warning!"

"I didn't think you'd even want to spar," Hashirama mumbled into his knees. He was staring at Madara as though he'd drowned his goldfish. "I thought we'd take it easy."

"Thought we—" Everything clicked. The delicately worded sentences, glossing over the book on human bones without a comment, the nervous growth of flowers. "I don't—I'm perfectly—"

He broke off with a hiss that hardly sounded human, even to his own ears.

"_I am not fragile!"_ he said. "I am a shinobi and I can handle a bit of—of—"

"Torture?" said Hashirama, mulish and sad.

_I've been through worse_, was the sharp retort he bit back just in time.

He hadn't been through worse. The time he spent in that cage, bathed in smoke and embers, fingers grasping at him, were the worst he could remember. If he searched deep enough, sunk down into that dark hopelessness, he could remember a whisper of _where did I go wrong_—_Hashirama, where_—and the feeling alone was a contender. But it wasn't a real memory, it was only a feeling, one that threatened to push him over the edge again. He didn't like it down there.

Madara dropped onto the riverbank next to him and grumbled an equally mulish, "Sorry."

The hand on his shoulder, after Hashirama had milked his sulkiness a couple minutes longer, should have been a comfort. He followed the coaxing gesture, because he wasn't Hashirama and _he_ didn't pout, but the sight of Hashirama's black eye did nothing for his mood. Bitterness snapped up with fanged jaws and closed around him, swift and merciless. He was dragged down.

Hashirama was speaking and Madara couldn't hear a word of it. That bruise mocked him. It wasn't the first time Madara had snapped. He'd done the same thing after everything changed, after the ghost had taken his skull in cold fingers and _squeezed_.

_Violent_ it whispered. No better than _them_. They'd greeted battle with razor grins, torn weapons from their bodies and wielded bones. _Vicious_. He thrived in battle. _Warmonger_. Not even his own clan had trusted him. His world was one bathed in blood where he could let loose that god-fire creature he pretended not to be.

"Hey."

Hashirama nudged his shoulder again, then moved to the back of his head.

"Look," he said, soft and knowing. The hand stroking through his hair was meant to distract, and it worked. "I was practicing this."

Madara jabbed clumsy fingers around his head and felt leaves and soft vines. It was some kind of ivy, flowering white.

"It's very nice," he said, and then frowned at the same of the leaves. "This isn't poison ivy, is it?"

"Of course not!" said Hashirama. "I _practiced_ this one."

The crown of white ivy tangled around Madara's head into a knot on his forehead. He had no idea what it looked like on him, but Hashirama was beaming, and Itama had migrated over to let out a little _ooh_ of appreciation. Meanwhile, the ground was being slowly taken over by a coating of green moss. Little red buds were nestled in prickly, fuzzy leaves.

"You know," said Itama, eyes rounded with innocence that immediately put Madara and Hashirama on guard, "flowers have meaning."

Madara's fingers froze on the white flowers in his hair.

"Oh?" he said.

"Actually, I think Izuna might've brought a book," said Itama.

Madara gave the pile of books a look of shrewd appraisement. He couldn't resist a peek at Hashirama's expression, which had gone—sure enough—very purposefully blank. The moss grew three inches and Hashirama gave it a look of purest terror.

While Hashirama was distracted with his plants, Madara readied himself. He shot to his feet and Hashirama, who apparently needed no time to plan or prepare—didn't even have to physically watch him—tackled his legs.

"NO! It's not important!"

Madara's knee caught his chin and he was not sorry in the least.

"_I want to know—_"

Hashirama was trying to pin him to the ground, howling something about plants being misleading—that the flower language was made up by humans and humans were wrong—but Hashirama's thought process was _human_, not plant, so the flowers followed a _human thought process_, and Madara was going to get his hands on that flower language book if it was the last thing he ever did—

Their scuffle went up a couple levels when Madara used a kawarimi to escape, only for Hashirama to throw lead-weighed ninja wire at his ankles. Before long, it had escalated into another spar and that time, they were both ready for it.

* * *

In no time at all, they had settled into a very familiar routine.

"They're crazy, huh?" said Hashirama, flopping on the shore next to Madara. He shuffled around to get comfortable, dropping a pouch in Madara's lap. "Berries. I brought a bunch for everyone."

Madara had been watching his brothers for the past five minutes, not entirely for the reason Hashirama assumed. True, initially the argument over the crayfish had drawn his attention. When Izuna had burst out something about fishes, he had loudly challenged Tobirama to a duel, and they'd been sparring ever since. It was one of those surreal moments where reality was sharpened, as though everything was cocooned and muted, until it freed itself with a sweep of wind. He could still see a Nakano River that was strangely lonely, with only himself and Hashirama.

"They're loud," he noted, plucking through the berries for his favorites. He liked the black, seedless ones Hashirama cultivated personally.

Hashirama threw his head back with a laugh and said, "Try living with them!"

There was a sideways glance from Itama, who had buried his nose in a book. Izuna and Itama had taken to doing book swaps during their meetings. As it turned out, Izuna hadn't had a flower language book. He had a medicinal plant book, though it was largely unhelpful; all words and no pictures, usually detailing a dozen toxic plants for every healthy one.

The following second, with Itama and Kawarama distracted by an impressive water serpent of Tobirama's design, Hashirama clamped a hand on Madara's knee.

"But there's something I wanted to talk about," he said, voice lowered, despite the others being far enough away not to hear. "It's about the Kaguya."

"Are they making movements?" said Madara, with a feeling like poison entering his bloodstream.

"Nothing like that," said Hashirama. "Only, I've been thinking about it, and it's—well, you were alone, weren't you?"

"Yes," said Madara slowly. He had a feeling he knew where Hashirama was going, having had plenty of time to mull it over.

"I think it's a real possibility there was sabotage," said Hashirama, his hand tightening on Madara's knee. He didn't seem to even realize it was still there. "There's no evidence—none of our scouts saw them receiving any messages. We keep a heavy eye on them."

"It's a necessity," said Madara, glowering down at the rocks. He could imagine the shiny, white rocks in the river were actually the skulls hung around the Kaguya Compound. "You never know when they'll lash out."

"But it's weird there was a whole squad of them waiting for you," said Hashirama.

"They didn't actually know I was an Uchiha," said Madara, remembering the way the Kaguya's priorities had switched in an instant. They hadn't hesitated to cut down their allies. He had no love lost for the Hagoromo, or slavers, but it was brutal to watch. Then, he remembered he'd done the same thing to the Hagoromo, and wondered if that was how he'd looked to his clanmates. "I think they were just there to guard the dealers."

"Maybe," said Hashirama, hesitating, before forging on. "You don't talk about it much. What happened? I can't shake the feeling we're missing something."

Madara took a great interest in the rocks. He scuffed one atop another. Hashirama still hadn't taken his hand off Madara's knee.

"We did a background check on her," said Madara. "The bartender, Reon. She's got one brother, but no long record dealing in people. It—I was her first deal."

"We got that, too."

Madara wheeled around in surprise. He hadn't known Hashirama researched anything in that area. It seemed like a risky endeavor to pull off without raising suspicion.

"I have friends," said Hashirama. "They did some side-digging for me."

"Well, it was nothing I didn't already know," said Madara, tossing a rock into the river, carefully not looking at the hand _still_ on his knee. He wasn't sure whether or not to bring attention to it. There could be some sort of meaning he was missing. He didn't mind it, but at the same time he couldn't _bear_ it.

Before he could decide whether the touch was welcome or not, Hashirama snatched his hand away, taking a renewed, fierce interest in the horizon. They'd been spending a lot more time in the sun, with the melting of winter, and Madara noticed a touch of color on his cheeks.

"I just wanted to tell you before—"

"Before?" said Madara sharply, throwing his shoulders back and sitting upright. "Before what?"

"As I was _saying_," said Hashirama, "before—"

There was a loud shriek of voices and practically the entire river engulfed them. Water poured over Madara's head and he tasted mud. All the warmth seemed to have drained from the world, before sunlight crawled over skin and warmed him. The water receded as quickly as it came, leaving Madara and Hashirama drenched and shivering.

Hair hung around his eyes and mouth in heavy locks, which he pushed away impatiently. He'd already climbed to his feet, angry protests on his tongue—Izuna was speaking rapidly, Tobirama looked a little too smug, Itama had his hands around his mouth; Kawarama was rolling on the ground, beset with gales of laughter—when he noticed Hashirama had not followed suit.

On the contrary, he'd curled into a ball, head tucked in his knees.

"Hashirama…?"

"I keep getting interrupted," Hashirama mumbled drearily into his knees.

"And I," said Madara, deciding to let Hashirama work _that_ little fit out himself, turning to Izuna and Hashirama's brothers, "am _soaked! Do you think it's funny!?"_

They all found it very funny. He pointedly ignored Kawarama. It was still very hard for him to get angry at Kawarama, who was the youngest of Hashirama's brothers, and had the most convincing pair of puppy eyes to belong to mankind.

"Consider it challenge accepted," said Madara, snatching his weapons pouch up from the shore, where he'd rested it, and drawing a couple kunai.

Izuna scrambled backwards a few feet, tripping over his sandals and crashing into Tobirama, who threw him a furtive _get_-_it_-_together_ kind of look.

Their cat and mouse game didn't last long.

Madara was genuinely curious about what Hashirama had to say, and Tobirama and Izuna had drained most of their energy on each other. With Kawarama throwing incredibly unhelpful advice from the sidelines and Itama mentioning jutsu from his book—as though Madara could just learn techniques by their name and description—he was eager to end it as quickly as possible. He left Tobirama and Izuna wriggling around in a trap jutsu of Izuna's own making.

"And so the trapmaker is trapped by his own trap," said Kawarama, crouching by Tobirama and Izuna. "That's ironic. Isn't it?"

He threw a querying look at Itama. He hummed noncommittally in response, buried in his book.

Madara left them brainstorming—how to get out of the trap, as well as the true meaning of irony—to find Hashirama had pulled his head out of his knees.

"Are you ready to tell me what you were trying to say?"

"I kept getting _interrupted_—"

"Yes, yes," said Madara, waving him on impatiently. "Continue?"

"I wanted to warn you before the winter festival," said Hashirama, speaking quickly, as though afraid something would stop him again. "We'll be gone about a week, give or take, so no meetings."

"Oh," said Madara, clawing past his disappointment with great personal effort, to the curiosity tugging at him. "What winter festival?"

Every bleak day seemed to drain from Hashirama's mood. He all but glowed, springing so close into Madara's personal space that he could count the freckles on Hashirama's cheeks. He seemed to think closeness communicated the sheer excitement he felt.

"It's amazing!" said Hashirama, his voice cracking, reaching over to actually _shake_ Madara's shoulders. "We've _got_ to make sure we have a lot of festivals in the—_you know what_—"

He whispered the last part, because they hadn't told their brothers about the village plans, yet. Madara felt another great stab of reviled guilt and bade himself stay strong. It wasn't as though the Uchiha were the only clan Hashirama could built a village with, so he wasn't ending Hashirama's dream or anything.

"We are going to have _tons_ of festivals," said Hashirama. "_Tons_. During the winter, summer, spring, autumn, for our birthdays—wait, when is your birthday?"

"Last month," said Madara, confused. He could have sworn they were just talking about festivals. "What's that got to do with—"

"_Last month_?" Hashirama cried in dismay. "You didn't tell me!"

"It's not that important," said Madara, leaning away from Hashirama. He didn't need to smell the last meal Hashirama had eaten. "If you must know, though, it's December twenty-forth. I turned fifteen."

"Oh, nice—mine's October twenty-third," said Hashirama, before wincing and shooting his brothers another look to make sure they weren't listening. Seeing as Tobirama and Izuna were still tied up, Kawarama and Itama finally realizing they needed to help, their brothers were occupied. "But, er—I'm very bad with dates. I just—it's not that I don't _care_, I do! I really do!"

Madara didn't need to be told twice to know Hashirama cared. He cared about more things than most people did in the world. That it was even in doubt was laughable, though he didn't dare actually laugh. Hashirama wore his heart on his sleeve, but he seemed to have plucked it off for today, cradled in calloused hands.

"It's just—I always get dates mixed up," said Hashirama, face shining with guilt. "Like, Kawarama's birthday. I can never remember if it's July sixth or seventh. But it's not like I have a bad memory—I remembered the page in a book I left off on two years ago. I remember writing it down—Itama hates it when I fold the page and I didn't have a bookmark—but I didn't even _have_ to, I even lost the number I wrote, but I remembered it—and, well, if I forget your birthday—"

The rambles were putting a muffled buzzing in Madara's ears, so he slammed a hand over Hashirama's mouth to shut him up. Hashirama blinked at him, wide-eyed and nonplussed.

"It's _fine_," said Madara, withdrawing his hand and making a production of wiping it on his yukata. "I—don't tell anyone, alright, but I can't read very well. Words kind of…"

He made a fluttering motion with his fingers.

"Do weird things."

Hashirama let out a snort, inappropriately delighted.

"We're an odd pair, huh?" he said. "It's like we're meant to be."

There was a flare of heat in Madara's chest, as though his heart caught fire, but didn't burn. He waited for the feeling to die down, only for the warmth to bubble and curl around him, coating him head to toe. If his hair wasn't still damp from the dowsing he received, he'd never known he was soaked in freezing water not long ago.

When Hashirama settled back down next to him, looking entirely at ease, Madara had the sneaking suspicion his mind wouldn't let go of that moment anytime soon. _We're an odd pair, huh?_ So long as it didn't haunt his sleep or anything, it was fine.

_It's like we're meant to be_.

Another surge of water could have been dumped on him, but it probably would have evaporated before it touched his skin. He must have believed in fate, too, because he didn't shy away from the words. Even as memories showed him what it really looked like, a home that was never his, a rain-filed valley to end all things, part of him was singing that it could be worth the risk.

* * *

Sometimes, all it took was a pebble to start an avalanche. The same could be said for the most lonesome voice. And the smallest of doubts could seed into an invasive sort of suspicion, choking and possessive. Madara had been gripped by it.

The days passed and neither Hashirama, nor his brothers, returned. He tried to picture them in a festival setting, lights strung up, food in hand, painted masks on their faces—but, no, that was Uchiha tradition. He knew nothing of Senju celebrations and hadn't had the chance to ask the last time he saw Hashirama. He was left imagining smoky villages, shifting scenery, with the only constant being Hashirama. Before his mind could settle into blissful orbit in that fantasy, the unease arrived.

He'd never felt so discomfited in his own clan. The well-wishers and smiles felt more like leers. He couldn't forget Hashirama's warnings, his suspicions. One of them—_any_ one of them, maybe even many of them—could have betrayed him.

Nights were restless, his dreams full of uncontrollable cages that swung him around and around, until he was spinning around the moon. He would suffocate up there, and then he would die in the Kaguya Compound. Embers flurried by his skin and there was laughter as he burned.

He woke up from those nightmares and more often than not, his first lucid thoughts were: _Someone wanted that to happen. _Someone had wanted him to hurt. He saw malice in crinkled eyes and lies in kindly worded statements.

"Oh, careful that's—"

Madara jerked the cup of tea from his mouth quickly with a hiss of pain

"—hot," finished Naka, a moment too late.

A scathing response boiled inside Madara, bitten back just in time. Not long ago, Hikari had set him up with several hours of transcriptions for snarling at her in a fit of anger.

Four pairs of eyes watched him cautiously. Always cautious, always careful around him, and every day that passed was a day he promised to get better.

He had taken to having tea with Hikaku, Naka, and Naori. With a lack of anything else to do, Izuna had joined them at evening, and brought along a whittled chunks of wood, partially hollowed out and tied to strings. He called it _art_ and said it would brighten their evenings. The dry clacking, clanking of the wood made gooseflesh crawl up Madara's arms. The tea wasn't quite enough to chase away the sound of pale bones rattling in smoky firelight.

"A wind chime!" said Izuna. "I think this might finally make Hokibo keel over."

"Forget Hokibo," said Naka. "Hikari is the one who needs keeling. She's a menace."

The past few weeks had been good for Naka, if Madara hadn't felt improved. Everything felt muted, rather than gone, as though his heart had grown callouses.

"Take some color to your hair," said Izuna, very seriously, as though he'd considered what it would take the murder the Elders a lot. Seeing as his _"inspiration,"_ as he called it, had been dampened the most by the Elders, he probably had. "If they see a flash of blue that's not on cloth, they'll probably have heart attacks."

"It would have to be sudden," said Hikaku, equally as serious. "And big. Go too small, too slow, and they might build an immunity."

"Would that be a tolerance for fun, or an appreciation?"

Naka set aside his cup and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes shining with a wild glee. He really was a far cry from the crumpled form Madara had found, now over a month ago.

"_Ah_, but my young friends—"

"Oh, please, you're not much older than us," said Izuna.

"—My _dear, much younger than me, friends_," said Naka, "I heard some really interesting things about Hikari. Apparently _she_ had a bit of a rebellious side in her youth."

"So," said Naori with enough dryness to dehydrate a desert, "to the surprise of no one, they're hypocrites."

Madara thought of the half hour long lecture Hokibo had put him through, when he was caught carving the Uchiha Clan symbol into trees, about sacred traditions demanded respect.

"I can't imagine Hokibo ever had a life," he said sourly. "Even in his youth."

"Oh, he probably screams "_Uchiha glory!"_ in bed," said Naka, to the disgusted protests of everyone around him.

"That's a mental image I could go to my pyre without," said Izuna, before breaking into a fit of giggles, stifled behind his hand.

Amusement flooded Madara's system and he wondered how he could have suspected any of them of betrayal.

He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice over his head. His attempts to keep up with the flow of conversation from there onward was strained. When Hikaku and Naka shared a look over their tea to hide sniggers, and Madara tried to puzzle out a hidden agenda for all of a moment, he knew he couldn't sit on his paranoia anymore. _Madness_, he thought. _He was going mad_. Teatime hadn't assuaged his fears in the least.

He excused himself from the tent, leaving his tea to grow cold on the ground, and hurried to the center of the encampment. There was a handful of people waiting outside the clan head tent for an audience with Tajima, all carrying problems of their own, which Madara pushed through without hesitation. He mumbled a vague apology to an Uchiha who dropped a pair of oiled gloves and burst into the tent.

Tajima looked up from behind his desk. The bags under his eyes had only gotten deeper, turning his eyes to bruises on his pale face. His hair had gotten longer and lanker.

"Yes?" he said, with startling coolness. He never seemed to know what to do with Madara anymore. Their conversations had never been smooth in the past, but now he and Madara might have very well been speaking two different languages. Madara, in regular words—Tajima, in avoidant and vague grunts.

"What is it?" said Tajima, when Madara didn't speak immediately. A wrinkle formed between his eyes and Madara knew he was getting ready to throw Madara out.

Sitting on cushions on each side of the tent, the Elders, Hokibo and Hikari, watched the exchange with inscrutable expressions.

"Father," said Madara, before he noticed Tajima's distinctly bloodshot gaze, and realized he might have chosen a bad time. He steeled his resolve, bolstered by the confidence that Tajima trusted his judgement, if nothing else. "Do you have a moment?"

"Go ahead," said Tajima, looking a little too relieved to set aside his quill.

Madara walked closer to the desk, still loathing the thing for the barrier it represented, and said, "I've had a lot of time to think about the attack—the Kaguya—and I don't think it's a coincidence they knew I was there."

Tajima nodded, but said nothing.

"I think it was a traitor," Madara burst out, unable to hold it within any longer.

The Elders sat up straighter. Hokibo's bushy eyebrows shot up, Hikari's slash of a mouth thinning even more. Tajima didn't outwardly react, apart from a nigh imperceptible sigh.

"Honored Elders," he said. "If I could have a moment with my son?"

Hearing the words _"my son,"_ were not the comfort they should have been, radiating a disregard that was borderline demeaning. As though he was reduced to a child, crying at monsters under his bed.

Not, Madara thought wryly, that he had a proper bed.

"These are serious accusations," said Hikari. "I believe we should be present to hear such—"

"Leave—_now_," said Tajima. "I will not ask again."

Both Elders packed an impressive amount of contempt into their glares as they left, stiff-backed, hands folded into their mantle sleeves. In the wake of their absence, a silence fell that turned the air to solid glass. Madara didn't dare move and shatter it.

"I am astounded," said Tajima in a hushed tone—too quiet. Madara would have almost preferred he shout, because his whisper was far more like a dagger between the ribs, than the widely brandished broadsword that was his shouting.

"Father—"

"_Astounded_," said Tajima, white as snow, hands trembling on the desk with the effort of restraining himself. "If you didn't _know_—if I knew you didn't, at the least, suspect—but you _know_—"

He couldn't seem to string words together.

Fear bloomed to life in Madara's gut, an age-old friend, as familiar as it was unwelcome. _Killing intent_, he noted. Tajima never hesitated to throw it around lately. _Losing his grip_, murmured a voice that sounded like his own, but older. _Weak_.

He waited for Tajima to finally explode, let loose the string of accusations that had to burning through his head. Tajima certainly looked as though he wanted to chew Madara out, but the longer he waited, the more the lines around his eyes seemed to ease away. His mouth twisted with an internal battle.

"You're just like—"

He stopped again, losing the battle.

"You suspect duplicity," said Tajima, "and decided to point fingers at your own clanmates?"

He walked around the desk and didn't stop until he was inches from Madara, staring down at him with sharingan eyes. Madara could see where Tajima was going, and he didn't like it.

"Not, say, your friends at the river?"

_No_, Madara groaned, outward and inward. He had been so careful not to be followed, not to be detected. He couldn't imagine _how_ Tajima found out. _"No."_

"_Yes_," said Tajima. "You trust them so much, you'd turn against your clan for them?"

"No!" Madara burst out, abandoning pretense. "No, I wouldn't, I wouldn't _ever_—but they're _good_, I know they are! Hashirama isn't like that—"

Tajima held a hand up for his silence.

He paced up and down the tent, while Madara felt as though the fabric was collapsing down on him. Madara knew what happened next, Tajima's brilliant and horrible idea, the gleam of wicked joy in his eyes—

Tajima stopped pacing abruptly, and turned.

_Arrange a meeting._

"Can you arrange a meeting with them again?"

The demand filled Madara with something cold and leaden.

"They're… gone," he said haltingly. "I don't know when they'll be back."

"That's fine," said Tajima. "Your connection to them may be of use, yet—"

_You'll spy on them._

"You will spy on them and bring back valuable information—"

—_and if nothing else yields_—

"—we will do what must be done," said Tajima. "The less Senju in the world, the better."

Madara strode out of the tent, ignoring the queries of the Elders, to hunt down Izuna. He changed his mind when he found Izuna sitting around the bonfire, doubled over laughing at one of Naka's jokes. He didn't want to ruin Izuna's day.

Instead, he did a circle of the encampment. Every plan he formulated for preventing the following meeting fell apart at the seams. He couldn't just _never_ go back to the river. He wouldn't be able to give his father the slip, either. And he had no handy rocks tucked away.

Time had a nasty habit of moving at inordinate speeds when one didn't want it to. That was how Madara found himself running to Nakano River shortly before sunrise, unable to wrack his brain for another plan that didn't end in utter _disaster_. He needed a stone, a flat stone. As Madara searched the beach, it occurred to him that he'd never practiced skipping the stones across the river quite as much as he did last time. It was such a stupid thing to worry about, skipping the rock all the way across, but he could imagine the _plunk_ it would make as it sunk into the waters.

He gave the rock an experimental toss. It skittered over the lake, landing on the other side smoothly, and he let out a shaky breath. _Stupid_, he thought. He was being stupid, jumping at shadows and doubting his own ability.

There was movement in the clan, by the time he returned. He all but dived back into his bedroll, hoping he wasn't too flushed or sweaty, and stuffed the rock in his yukata. It dug into his ribs as he tried to force himself to catch an hour or two of sleep.

When the tent flap opened with a rustle, Madara wasted no time springing upward, fully awake—though he'd never really been asleep. Tajima was already geared for a full fledged battle. There was a feeling like death in the air, the dread that had stolen over Madara every time one of his brothers died.

There was a chance Hashirama wouldn't be at the river. He'd said he would be gone for a _while_, though he never really specified how long. Madara didn't bother with a weapons pouch ("To make it look authentic," he said, at Tajima's sideways look.) in a sign of goodwill. Hashirama was always talking about goodwill.

_A proffered hand he'd never taken_. He should have taken it. _A future he couldn't change._ He's started to hope, though, and that was the worst part. But fate was a fickle thing, it was fond of its patterns, and far more than a few soft, extra voices would be needed to shake it to its foundations.

So, when Madara reached Nakano River and found not only Hashirama, but all three of his brothers waiting, he wasn't particularly surprised. Icy cold dread gripped him and twisted his insides, but not shock. He stood at the edge of the river—Hashirama greeted him with a wave, and Itama was already rambling about something he'd learned in a book—and Madara slipped the rock into his hand.

_They tried something new that time. A dual warning. Twin grim looks. _

He skipped the rock and it landed on the other side, squarely in Hashirama's hand. The other rock did the same, smacking against Madara's palm, cool and damp. He turned it over. _Run_, it said.

On the other side, Hashirama was looking down at a rock scrawled in Madara's untidy chicken scratch: _Trap, scram_.

They were running, before the first kunai flew.

Butsuma landed on the river, followed by one Senju that Madara didn't recognize, and one that he did. Toka looked vaguely embarrassed to be there.

There was a _rush_ of movement, and Tajima was zipping by Madara to meet Butsuma head-on. He'd brought Naka and Naori along with him.

Madara felt strangely as though he was melting into the background, as though everything happening in front of him wasn't quite real. They weren't really fighting. The time he had to share with Hashirama at Nakano River wasn't really drawing to a close.

"Can you take him?" said Tajima, looking back at Madara with wariness that hadn't been there last time. He was, of course, talking about Hashirama.

Hashirama and Madara, who were to play the bait. He remembered the same game being played with Izuna and Tobirama. He also remembered Tajima tried to kill Izuna.

"No," said Madara. _No._ He'd changed nothing. Ever and always, it was for nothing, but the cruel machinations of something he didn't understand. "I can't keep up with him."

Hashirama spoke, something Madara couldn't hear, but he knew from memory. He knew it from heart, because he'd dreaded that moment. Madara tried to reply, too, but his voice was stuck. _It was a nice pipe dream, while it lasted_. Only it hadn't been a pipe dream. Hashirama got his village in the future, Hashirama _won_, and he couldn't think of anything to say to that.

There was nothing _to_ say, with so many Uchiha watching him. He could hardly apologize to Hashirama for messing up so badly.

They were in the forest again, the river to their back, and Hashirama's solemn face emblazoned in Madara's foremind, when Tajima spoke.

"There is a silver lining," he said. "Your sharingan, son."

Madara blinked his eyes, caught himself before he could inform Tajima he'd activated the sharingan months ago, and nodded. Tajima had never called him son, before—that Tajima said so only for the sharingan was not lost on him.

They darted under the canopy, Nakano River to their backs, and moved on.


	8. Tunnel Vision

A world viewed through the center of a keyhole was a subjective world. Pick a small, cozy space and peer into it, focus only on that spot, and avoid whatever else might lay in the rest of the room. It was blissful ignorance and blind faith rolled into one, always hoping no one would walk up from behind and open the door, and send the viewer plummeting into the rest of the world, and all that they had avoided.

Walking through Konohagakure no Sato, Madara felt every bit like he was viewing the world from a keyhole. Specifically, it was a lock belonging to Hashirama. In Hashirama's vision of perfection, the mess collecting around them did not exist. Nothing about his dream could really continue as it was, because that was what dreams were: phantoms existing in the mind, never meant to live outside one's skull. The village would not last—it _couldn't_ last.

And if Madara was supposed to believe it was peace in the first place, he wasn't sure he wanted anything to do with it.

He lived in a world where he didn't meet eyes with his fellow villagers, and Hashirama still called it family. If that was the case, it was a family Madara could neither bear to look at, nor speak to, on a daily basis.

He withdrew for long periods of time. One simple exchange of small talk felt monumental. He discussed arm wrappings with an old man no more than a week ago, and was left nearly glowing with pride after one successful conversation. Those feelings had the half-life of a mayfly, crushed when he remembered people had conversations like that every day and did not have to struggle through them.

In the months after the foundation of the village, so much had already changed from its beginning. There were far more people than he expected, for one. It was not a village of Senju and Uchiha. It was a village of Uchiha, Senju, and every other clan seemed to be related to the Senju, whether by marriage or blood, in one way or another.

"These things take _time_," said Hashirama insistently, too over the moon at their success to realize he was making Madara feel like a particularly disliked dog who had yet to be fully accepted by the family. "They'll warm up. I know they will—just make your face a little less _frowny_—"

Madara had elbowed him in the gut and flipped him over the bridge they were standing on, into the river below. While Hashirama coughed and spluttered ("Why does every one of our interactions end with me getting _soaked?"_), Madara enjoyed his first feeling of mirth in what felt like an eternity.

_Don't trust them_. Izuna's last words haunted him. He clung to the feeling of joy that had sparked so fierce and bright that it burned him, even as it slipped away. His smile became less of a smile and more a grimace.

As Hashirama clambered out of the river, he wanted to leave. He saw the wilds outside the village, and he saw himself disappearing into them. That was the first time it struck him. He pushed the thought away and tried to remember how to enjoy the moment.

The months wore on as he tried to pin down the feeling of restlessness that turned life into a living nightmare. When his mind was coated in oil, thoughts slippery as eels, and he grasped onto reality with the thinnest thread. It was the knowledge the Uchiha would survive that kept him sane. Until that turned to doubt, too.

When Tobirama was made into Hashirama's advisor, unofficially the one most listened to, the inclination to leave struck Madara again like a rebounding disease.

He had once fallen off a cliff at a dead run, many years ago. After a moment of weightlessness, too displaced from what was supposed to be under his feet to feel much more than confusion, he had smacked against the surface of water. It wasn't until he was sinking into the depths of a lake that he regained sense of himself. Water had crushed against his lungs, the surface far above rippling with a silvery lining that was not even close to hopeful. Every stroke upward had been a battle of will. Madara wanted for much, but death wasn't one of those things. He had _liked_ being alive, bewilderingly enough.

Years later, Madara felt the lake crushing him again. Like the child who had struggled against the current for the surface, he was looking for the silver lining. Part of him wanted to lay his weary bones to rest and be done with it all. Part of him was still raging against the lake.

The lake, in this case, was the village, and it was drowning him.

He could have picked any number of small and big reasons for leaving the village, in the end. Some were his fault. Some weren't. On some drowsy days, he was tempted to turn back around and return to the village. He knew Hashirama, foolish man that he was with his warm eyes and smiles that struck like softened daggers. Hashirama would welcome him back, if no one else would.

(Because no one would, either. He'd had few friends, even among his own people, the closest being Naka and Naori, who he'd let down every step of his time as Clan Head. He had dug his grave himself, but that didn't make the pill any less bitter to swallow.)

But the days wore on and Madara did not return. Hashirama had duties and obligations: an ever-growing village, headache-inducing political intrigues, and a beautiful family. The words "force of nature" had been used many times with many people in the past, but none quite encapsulated it the way Uzumaki Mito did. She was bright, present, and embraced the world-everything Hashirama needed.

Madara, a ghost seeking to make his own world, the whisper of higher power in his ear, was nothing Hashirama needed. Not anymore, or maybe never.

Madara was a ghost who would make his own world, and the whisper of higher power in his ear agreed.

* * *

If asked, Uchiha Madara would have replied the following years went idyllically.

He left his tent most mornings with a sour expression that belayed his words, the taste of discontentment on his tongue like a rotten lemon. The details of his dreams always eluded him, but he remembered footnotes. Faces and places, a random phrase here and there—

_"My brother, my friend, or my child—"_

He knew enough, as always, and didn't care to know more. The fact of the matter was that _some people_ had done questionable things, and now that Madara knew what _plausible deniability_ meant, he was abusing the term to the utmost.

Not that anyone knew about his memories from the future, or ever would. People suspected there was something wrong with him, but that was the same as ever. The wrongness had simply taken on a different flavor.

People had better things to worry about than Madara's strangeness, thankfully. In the time after parting ways with the Senju brothers, many things changed.

On a personal level, Madara felt the weight of his father's regard differently. Gone were the glances glimpsed from a sideways view, when Tajima thought he couldn't see. It was all too easy to spot Tajima watching now, to cover for the times he was waiting to see a slip up from Madara. A sign his son could not be trusted.

The shockwaves of his friendship with the Senju was felt for long after the fact. It could not have been forgotten, of course. Everyone knew.

Officially, his punishment was a round-the-clock escort. He was not allowed outside camp confines without allowance, and no longer invited to clan meetings—which he spent sitting in his tent, with the escort. Unofficially, he was being babysat. No one could have gotten off from a punishment after "consorting" with the Senju, though he greatly contested the choice of words. If the Elders had favored him a bit more or his father trusted him or he'd learned anything of use from the Senju, he might have gotten away with it.

His glorified babysitters oversaw his training and daily goings. They ensured he never strayed far from camp. Another term for them was _jailors_, but Madara could never tell if he really thought that or if that was the opinion of the collective memories from the future.

Clearer than his mind, were the feelings of his clanmates. The ones who weren't furious were worried. He could have let something slip, or been hurt or killed. None of them had forgotten the Kaguya Clan incident. Likely, they would never forget. The Uchiha had long memories, and carried grudges even longer.

Seeing as he _hadn't_ let anything important out, to their knowledge, the Elders had called it a "mistake of the youth," for the most part. So—escort. He could not be trusted on his own.

He got off easy and he knew it.

That didn't make sitting out missions and feeling like a useless waste of space any easier.

Luckily, he was let out occasionally. Unluckily, it was for the most menial of jobs, meant only to bring in quick money. Not that the clan hadn't done those sorts of jobs before. Still, they had always drawn the line at some jobs. For example: animal-rescue and the _"My grandfather's best friend's cousin's heirloom that was passed down to me has gone missing and I suspect it was my rivalling neighbor. Can you, maybe, sort of, kill them for me?"_ sort of demands.

If Madara was asked to rescue one more cat, he might just take up the next murderous next-door-neighbor on their request. Either that, or burn down all the forests. The cats couldn't get stuck in trees if there were no trees to get stuck in, after all.

"So violent towards our own patron animal," said Naka. "But the burning thing sounds good."

Madara was reminded why voicing his more destructive whims aloud, around a bunch of Uchiha one pin-drop away from an explosion, was a bad idea.

"Stop looking at me like that," said Naka. "It was a joke. The clan's doing great."

He was right. Between running non-stop errands and haggling people out of every piece of money in their wallets, the Uchiha Clan had gathered an impressive, albeit small, fortune.

That was, until Uchiha Naka revealed himself to be a dirty liar and got into a knockdown, drag-out battle with a couple Kaguya. It resulted in an astronomical amount of property damage. Seeing as no one sane was brave enough to ask the _Kaguya_ to pay for the damage, the bills were sent to the Uchiha Clan. People somehow found flashing red eyes less terrifying than peeling bone from skin. Wonder of wonders.

Normally, the Uchiha would have delighted in ignoring such things, but Madara was trying to build a _positive reputation_.

If the past taught him anything, it was that PR was important, and he didn't want the Uchiha Clan to be remembered as a people only slightly above bandits.

He would have liked to say he and Tajima had a constructive conversation that ended in mutual understanding, but, well—

"I don't know how to tell you this," said Izuna, standing in the center of a street, his hands shielding his eyes from the sun, "but I don't think that's a roof."

Madara ignored him in favor of nailing down a plank that was _definitely_ a part of a roof.

"I'm getting a crick in my neck talking to you like this," said Izuna. "Have you even been listening?"

"Snow Country, aliens, that man whose books you've read obsessively for three years now is close to discovering a new civilization in Arbutus Valley," Madara rattled off, trying to wedge the wood planks a little closer together. They had a sort of paste that was supposed to keep the rain out—or at least, he hoped that was what it did.

"That's so—ugh. So anticlimactic. The culmination of Yurimoto's lifetime of work boiled down to 'a new civilization.' It's _so much bigger_ than that."

Madara drowned him out after that because he definitely wasn't building a roof. He wasn't sure what it was anymore, but it wouldn't keep birds out, let alone rain.

His decision to pay for the damages to the town had been met with something like, "_Cute, but no_," from the clan. His 'constructive conversation' with Tajima devolved into a screaming match, which eventually forced the Elders to step in. They helpfully gave him a way to work off the rest of his punishment by fixing up the town.

Whether or not he actually fixed anything was a very intense philosophical debate that Madara ultimately won because he had a sharingan and kunai and the civilian accusing him of ruining the roof even more decidedly didn't.

"A bust, then?" said Izuna on the way back to the clan camp. He turned the page of a new book. Where he kept getting them was a mystery. "Hey, is there something interesting about the horizon?"

"What? No?" said Madara, looking away from the horizon.

"You're looking a little…"

"A little what? Don't trail off like that!"

"Ah, it's not important," said Izuna, to which Madara begged to differ. "Now, what _is_ important is this book. As it turns out, this place has actually been the source of mystery for many years, but no one's been willing to risk an expedition. Yurimoto is a brave soul, indeed…"

He trailed off again. When Madara looked up, he saw why. Naori was striding out of camp toward them, a clipboard tucked into one elbow, ten pouches wrapped around the other arm, and batting aside branches as though nature was one inconvenience too many.

"Long day?" said Izuna.

Naori huffed out a half-hearted, humorless laugh. "Something like that."

"Did something happen?" said Madara.

"We're moving," she said. "The whole clan. To the plains."

"Oh, is that all?" said Izuna. "Thought the sun was blowing up or something."

"'Is that all'?" said Naori, her lips thinning. She stabbed her clipboard at him. "Do you know how long we've been camped here? _Years_. We've grown roots. Literally."

"Some of us have," said Izuna, jabbing an elbow into Madara's side.

Madara returned the favor by glaring the threat of death into him.

"We've scattered deeper into the forest than when we first moved here—_years ago_, I might add, in case that hasn't sunken as deep as half our tents have into the mud," said Naori. "There are weapons and pieces of armor to collect. Tents need to be collapsed, but most of them have been up so long I think they'll just fall apart if we try. We've also gained a sizably larger collection of books, weapons, and armors since we landed here—"

"Which is good," said Izuna.

"_Not_ when our transportation equipment is only enough for the amount we _arrived in_," said Naori. "And of course we can't just throw away perfectly good items, but if we buy a wagon to carry things, we'll be on a veritable _pilgrimage!_ Are we or are we not shinobi? I've been reminding people all day that objects are meant to be parted with, but _nooo_—of course we can't get rid of a damned _rock_ that's worth nothing. And why did he want to keep it? It's _shiny_."

The emotional synapses in Madara's brain slowly started to connect one by one, until realization dawned on him. "Are you… upset?"

Naori was a particularly stubborn stone in the onslaught of rapids. She could be cold and unmoving, but utterly reliable. It was unusual to see her so riled up.

"I am not _upset_," said Naori, looking upset over the notion of being upset, "I am simply coming to the understanding our clan is in short supply of logic, rationality, and common sense."

Madara couldn't think of anything to reply with, so he settled on a noncommittal, "Ah."

"Tajima-sama wants to move the clan as soon as possible," she said. "I think he's afraid of a… well, he's expecting an attack. Whether or not his suspicions are correct is another topic hot for debate in the clan at the current moment."

"And that's a problem?" said Madara, who found it perfectly reasonable. Tajima was paranoid about the Senju, which was obvious enough to notice. However, the Senju had no reason to attack. The Uchiha were little more than shadows clinging to the edges of the forest. "Moving us so abruptly is unnecessary."

"Yes, that is the general consensus of many," said Naori. "However, there are enough loud voices who agree with him to go ahead with moving the clan. And so, here I am, trying to get them all to cooperate long enough to pack up."

"Why aren't the Elders helping?" said Izuna. "They love bossing people around."

"The Elders are more focused on _where_ we're moving," sighed Naori, shifting the pouches in her grip, rolling her shoulders back. "It's important. We lost many of our strategists to sickness last winter, so there's a vacuum. I knew filling it would come with an increased workload, but…"

She'd been going nonstop as long as Madara remembered.

"Is that a manifest of what needs to be done?" said Madara. "Give it here. I'll get them moving. Take a breather."

"I can't," she started, but he stopped her with a hand in the air.

"Take a break. You'll be no good to anyone if you work yourself to death."

Naori dithered over it a moment, before relenting the clipboard to Madara. She tightened her grip on the pouches, though.

"I will finish what I was doing with these," she said. "Then… I suppose tea and some calligraphy would be nice. I haven't practiced in a while. Would you care to join me later?"

Distaste must have shown in his expression, because she cracked a dry smile.

"Not for the calligraphy. Tea and games, if Naka actually remembers to bring the shogi board this time."

"Sounds great!" said Izuna. "Madara and I would love to go."

"Now, wait a—"

Madara was rudely trampled over.

"Hey, is that Hokibo's name here? He's the one who's got the rock collection?" said Izuna. "Unnecessary joy and fashion? In _this_ clan? The scandal! If I can't have blue ribbons in my hair, he can't have a shiny rock collection."

They parted ways until the following evening, which found a reluctant Madara being dragged to the meeting with Naori and Naka by an enthusiastic Izuna. The night went well, and soon after, Naka started inviting Madara to play games of strategy with him. It eventually evolved into regular meetings with Naka, Naori, and Hikaku, which Izuna insisted was called _hanging out_.

"My brother," he said, wiping away a fake tear, "learning how to be a _person_. I'm so proud."

"If you mysteriously disappear, I can't be held accountable," said Madara.

"If you do, can you burn the black box under my bed? No reason why, just—it would be appreciated."

"What's in the black box?" said Madara, immediately thinking _blackmail_.

"Oh, nothing important."

Nothing important turned out to be poorly written smut novels, the most worn of which was the _Resentment of Chunshan_. Madara, in a fit of shock, accidentally burned one of them. He hid the ashes at the bottom, shoved the box away, and hoped Izuna never found out. Luckily, he couldn't confront any suspects without admitting he had smut hidden under his bed, so Madara was safe to forget he ever saw them.

Leaving their spot in the Fire Country forests was a bigger production than anyone could have foreseen. Naori's fear of the move turning into a pilgrimage turned out to be somewhat validated. Even using all the storage scrolls in their possession, they ended up needing three wagons for the odds and ends. No one in the clan was talented enough at seal jutsu to write out any more reliably in the time frame that Tajima wanted to leave and no one trusted their personal belongings in a shoddy seal. And so, the wagons. All three of them.

For a while, Madara was afraid Naori would develop a permanent twitch. They fended off several attacks from unmarked assailants, all of which seemed to mistake them for a simple travelling caravan.

"I can't imagine why," grumbled Naori, her grip white-knuckled on her clipboard, looking one creak of a squeaky wheel away from cracking it over someone's head. "We used to be _nomadic_. Using the land. Carrying only what we needed. Those were the days."

"Yeah, maybe a hundred years ago," said Izuna. "I need those books, fight me—not really, not really!"

The plains turned to tundra, which turned into shallow and rocky mountains. They found a good, defensible spot and set camp. The earth jutsu users got to carving caves out of the mountainsides. Soon, they had a small Uchiha settlement dug into a rocky orange cliff face. At night, it looked like dozens of flickering eyes staring out from the darkness, shadowy forms flitting one way and another.

Naka took the wagons into a town a few miles away and sold them for more than they were worth. He was very proud of that fact, too.

"So, you scammed them?" said Madara.

"I call it haggling," said Naka. "Also, checkmate."

It was the first quiet night they'd had since staking out on that mountain. To Madara's left, the doorway was gaping open. They hadn't installed doors yet, so most entranceways had curtains nailed up. He liked to keep his eyes open with a clear view of the stars.

Firelight flickered off the warm stones, still trapping the heat of day.

"I was uncertain about Tajima-sama's decision to move out here at first," said Naka. "But it's growing on me fast. I think I like the heat, too."

"It was hot back there," said Madara.

"Humid heat. This is drier. Doesn't leave you feeling like you're steam-broiling, you know?"

Madara grunted, setting the pieces back up for another game. He reached for a drink of his tea, only to find it was empty.

"You still don't approve?" said Naka.

"It's not that I approve or don't approve," said Madara. "We didn't need to move. It's nice here, but we're so far away from the topography we're used to."

"Miss your Senju friends?" said Naka, a little sharply.

Madara leveled him with a glare and Naka winced.

"Sorry. I'm working on that." Naka moved a piece on the board. "Whatever the case, I do like it here. For whatever that's worth."

Another year turned—spring, summer, autumn—and the Uchiha started growing new roots. Elder Hokibo's confiscated rock collection was undoubtedly growing to new splendor, in secret. With the autumn and cooling temperatures, Madara's eighteenth birthday rolled around.

He'd never been more happy to turn eighteen, and that he knew with certainty. Repeating memories told him his last eighteenth birthday had been a somber affair. The flash of a kunai, a face pale with betrayal and nausea, eyes twisted and fractured red and black. Izuna huddled on the ground, fingers digging into his scalp.

In another lifetime, Madara received the mangekyou sharingan for his eighteenth birthday. His father's final gift.

He could hardly believe so much time had passed. It felt like a blink.

All day, he walked on eggshells. He kept waiting for something to happen, for the other shoe to drop. He kept an eye on Tajima and Izuna, but neither of them were acting any different than normal. Madara was more relieved that Tajima forgot than disappointed, though he was wary of Izuna's nonchalant attitude. It meant he probably had something planned.

The day passed. Madara woke with a feeling of elation. _Eighteen_.

He breezed by his escorts for the last time, with a flick of long black hair, freedom singing in his soul. He hadn't felt so light since—well, a long time.

Izuna's surprise was, as it turned out, a little late.

"I got us an _epic_ adventure," said Izuna, which was normally the code words for '_chaos is about to ensue_.' "And by adventure, I mean a mission. Father is still leery sending you out alone, so it's technically the two of us. But there's a big library where we're going and I'm totally going to go missing for a bit—oops—and you're gonna have alone time for the first time since you were fourteen. Sounds fun?"

"Where are we going?" said Madara, containing his grin through force of steely will.

"North, back towards the Fire Country forests," said Izuna. "Thought it'd be nice to see familiar territory."

After years of escorts, confinement with the exception of cat-chasing and roof-building, it sounded downright _thrilling_. He was elated to be taking his first solo mission, unofficial as it was, away from the clan. He wreaked outright havoc on the north, tearing through forests and leaving the blackened scars of true fire in the Fire Country. If his eyes lingered on the forest, looking for a glimpse of crimson armor—Hashirama had to have the armor by now, right?—well, Izuna was good as his word, lost in a library somewhere, and no one was around to notice.

The downside to his newfound freedom was that he was, possibly, a little drunk on it. There was a good chance his initial mission had ended in several forest fires.

"You—are—a—_hypocrite!_" Naka was yelling as he attempted to wrangle Madara in tripwire, throwing fireballs and insults galore. "It's taken me _two years_ to pay off that one fight I got in—"

"You burned down _half the town_—"

"No one even died!"

"Out of sheer _luck_—"

"_Pay up!_ I want a goddamn ryo for every tree!"

"You're being ridiculous," said Madara, sidestepping a kunai, Naka's body flying at him with a sword in hand, and whirled around to land a kick squarely on Naka's back. He fell face-forward and Madara stepped on him. "And stop interrupting me. It's annoying."

"You know what's annoying? Being lectured about _responsibility_—"

"Which you don't have."

"—and being told to _contain myself_—"

"Which you don't do."

"WOULD YOU STOP?"

It wasn't so funny interrupting when one's self was the one being interrupted. Madara didn't hesitate to tell Naka that, which landed them in another fight. They were friends—really, they were. It would be easy to assume otherwise going off the way they pulled absolutely no punches, verbally and physically, but they were friends. Sort of.

They headed back once they resolved the worst of their tussle, racing each other up mountains and darting alongside cliffs. There was a winding river through a large canyon, which Madara often found his eyes straying to. At the base of the river were several goats, licking up the salt from rocks, comprising one part of the plentiful array of game animals in the area.

The altitude gave the clan clear views of everything around them. As such, many of the younger shinobi had taken up the bow—all the better to shoot people off the mountain, if they tried to climb.

At the settlement, life was going as usual. A couple children were trying to throw kunai into straw dummies, some of the younger teenagers showing them the proper ways to hold the weapons. One of the elders—Madara thought it was probably Hokibo—was chewing out Naori, who had dyed her hair dark purple. Waiting in line for a lecture was Hikaku, the hair at one temple shorn close to his skull. It looked cool, which meant Hokibo had to protest on principle.

Inside one of the largest tents, adjacent to the Clan Head tent, was the place Izuna had taken up roost for the past few weeks. He was pouring over scrolls, hair awry, dark circles under his feverish eyes. He had sprouted up in height, and with that his duties. Izuna's pastime charting stars and reading any scrap of paper he could get his hands on landed him with the unenviable job of decoding messages. Madara took one look at a slip of parchment—a word that could have been _mouth_ or _month_ or something else—and felt only relief that it was not him doing that job.

Izuna looked up from his work.

"Back so soon? Good, I need another ear to rant into," he said. "These were written by someone drunk and high, it's the only explanation. Even you could do better."

"Thanks," said Madara dryly.

"You're welcome," said Izuna. "I cannot begin to explain how frustrating these are."

"Start at the beginning?" said Madara, knowing he wouldn't escape regardless. He'd might as well attempt to expedite the process. Izuna liked complaining—said it kept his skin young. Whatever that meant.

"Which beginning? The beginning of this tick-borne disease known as coding or the beginning of the downfall of my hobby? Or, even further back than that, when I first started reading everything in our archives?" Izuna was spitting fire. The parchments on the desk were wrinkled, evidence of the amount of times he'd wadded them up and thrown them to the ground, only to pick them up again out of sheer stubbornness and duty. "Remember when I used to enjoy reading? I think I'd sell my liver to never see another word again."

"I quite agree. With the last part, at least," said Madara.

"Yes, well—I couldn't quite imagine decoding these while they were doing cartwheels on top of the linguistic gymnastics they're doing." Izuna sucked in a deep breath and smoothed out the wrinkled paper. Again. "Now, I'm going to focus on this. Before something else happens, or gets set on fire—"

"Oh, yeah, who did that again?" said Madara, thinking of the small fire that had broken out in the bath house earlier that day. He'd smelled smoke and seen people running, but that was all he knew of the incident.

"I think it was Hikaku, anyway—"

"_Hikaku?_" said Madara, startled. Hikaku was one of the most level-headed Uchiha in the clan. "Are you sure?"

"Duh, I was there—_oh,_ speaking of which," said Izuna, taking his hand off the wrinkled paper, which sprung back into a roll with the weight off. "You and I need to have a talk about sleeping."

"What does sleeping have to do with Hikaku setting stuff on fire?"

"Underlying stress, breaking points, typical responses to an increasing workload and no outlet for frustration," said Izuna, waving his hand in the air. "Which brings me to rest and sleep, which you don't do."

"I sleep and I'm not stressed," said Madara. "And why is Hikaku stressed? I thought all the work was being doled out evenly—"

"That's impossible, depending on the job, and stop interrupting me."

Madara snapped his mouth shut.

"Anyway, it's all kind of tied together. Hikaku and Naka were arguing over something, and you and Naka are always fighting—"

They bickered occasionally and had a habit of sparring to the point of broken bones, but they were _friends_, really. Madara opened his mouth to tell Izuna, whose glare told him to stay quiet if he knew what was good for him.

"Father's getting looser in his terminology again with skirmishes, so people are targeting groups more often," said Izuna. "Mostly they're bandit groups, a couple thieves, but it's cutting _close_ to civilians again. Father's got a lot on his plate and he's stopped caring."

That wasn't quite true. Uchiha Tajima cared, but he _was_ getting tired. His morals had never been his strong suit, and he was prone to taking short cuts. If a few innocents got caught up in the crossfire, well—so long as it was profitable to the clan, right?

Madara had hoped to change that behavior, but some people were so steeped in habits that it seemed separating the flesh from their bones would be easier. Not to say he'd given up, but a more direct approach was necessary.

"You're in line for Clan Head, but people haven't forgotten the Senju Hashirama incident," said Izuna, lowering his voice. His expression softened in a way that made Madara guarded. He saw that look on the wistful elderly, not his little brother. "Then, there was your sickness—shut up, I know it was only a few days, but we thought you were going to die. Then, you woke up, and you were…"

Izuna scraped his fingernail on the table. He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. Madara woke up different. Not totally changed, but _off_. Of course, he knew the reason for it. No one else did, though, and he wasn't going to tell anyone. It was bad enough to acknowledge the monster in his head was some form of himself, but to admit it to someone else was too much.

"And I know you've gotten used to having watchers on missions, but the way you're staring off into space is concerning. How can you take over after Father if people think you're two steps from some brain fantasy?"

"I do _not_ stare off into space," said Madara. "I'm very focused!"

"Well, kind of, with the sharingan, yes," said Izuna. "But—ah, how to put this? It's like you're distracted all the time. Like something else is on your mind. And people remember the whole Hashirama thing. And—I mean, I didn't start the rumors, but you know how some of the storytellers in this clan are—"

"_Spit it out_."

"Well, Hashirama and his brothers were forces of nature, I get it," said Izuna. "I kind of miss talking to Tobirama, too. And I can say that, because _I_ am not in line for the position of Clan Head, unlike you. I guess I figured you probably missed them, too."

"Miss…What's there to miss?" said Madara, furiously blinking away images of a crooked grin and the feeling of calloused hands dragging vines out of his hair. Dark brown eyes squinting through the sun, seeing something passed Madara. Something beyond him and his limited imagination.

"Like I said, 'force of nature,'" said Izuna, cracking into a half-grin at his own joke. "Gotta admit, his ideas and dreams were catching."

The feeling of hands through his hair lingered in an unpleasant way that put Madara's stomach on edge. He hated that desperate clawing—like he was grasping onto the edge of a cliff. Where was the solid ground and where was the end of age-old emotions, the ones he should have outgrown years ago?

"He spouted sentiment," said Madara, just shy of snarling, "sentiment and dreams about some perfect world for himself. And you saw what he could do. If his world didn't line up with yours? What then? A stab in the back?"

He waited for Izuna to say something derogatory about Senju, already seeing wisps of a memory of him doing just that. Only, the look on Izuna's face was anything but agreement. His brow was creased in concern, lecture and coded messages all forgotten.

"Madara—brother—are we remembering the same Senju Hashirama?"

No, they weren't. He was sure they weren't. Sometimes it was hard to pick apart the differences, if there were any of them. He hadn't seen Hashirama in years. And the voice coming out of his mouth was sounding closer and closer to the ghost wrapped in his skull. He had lost count of the amount of times Naka had looked at him strangely, as though he'd spoken greatly out of character.

If asked, he realized, digging his own talons deeper in his mind—because he was so good at that—he would not be able to tell who was who.

"Hey, remember what I said about drifting off—_hey_, where are you—"

Madara didn't hear the rest of his statement. He made a backhanded motion for Izuna to stay put—everything was fine, really, something just came up—and cut a quick way from the Uchiha settlement. The set up was easy to get around. All he had to do was hop down from one ledge to the other, until he was at the ground level. From there, he could become lost within twisted canyons and hollows in seconds. No one would find him, especially if they hadn't seen where he entered.

A walk was an order. Part of the reason the years he spent with an escort were such hell was due to the fact there was someone _always there_. As in, they would see everything. Madara could not sag his shoulders and cradle his face and scream silently with someone watching.

And scream he did. Silently, with no one watching. He was free.

He didn't taste blood on the back of his tongue, but he remembered it. It was disgusting, making his stomach churn. Suddenly, the bright orange of the canyons was garish, the itch of the new fabric of his clothing, tailored for the climate, was unbearable.

He stayed curled by the river for a long time, breaths measured and even. Sometimes, he hated his own control, but he never wondered what it would be like to break. He'd already done that once, after all. It didn't accomplish much.

Footsteps scuffled to his right and Madara's heart did a furious plunge into his gut. He wanted to be _alone_.

"What are you—"

He stopped. It was Naori.

"I wanted to ask you something, but you looked like you needed company more," said Naori, and though it made no sense to Madara, he was sure it meant something to her. "It's a nice area."

"Everyone seems to like it here," said Madara, and then snapped his mouth shut. He could easily say something in his bitter state, something so unlike him and horrible it would make her leave. He would prefer to be alone, but he didn't want her gone forever. It was a conundrum, but it was one he'd have to work through the hard way. And it wasn't as though he'd never tried everything alone in the past.

"It's a change of pace," said Naori, settling onto the ground next to Madara. She brushed aside some small pebbles. "The grass is always greener, same difference."

"There's no grass here."

"Has nothing stood out to you?" asked Naori. "I'm sure if you look for it, it's there. Why don't you try naming five things?"

Madara, dug his fingers into the dirt. He knew what she was doing, but didn't begrudge her for it.

"The river. Rocks. That bird. Shrubs. Flowers."

"There isn't much plant life here," said Naori. "Do you miss the trees?"

"Naori, I am not a child in need of kind words," said Madara flatly, pushing his knees down into a more casual, less vulnerable, position.

"I never said you were," said Naori glibly. "But you're feeling a bit better, no?"

Everything felt a bit more real. She wouldn't understand if he said that, so he settled on a shrug. Then he rolled his shoulders back, stretching, unsure when he'd gotten so stiff and uncomfortable.

"Dinner is being served," said Naori. "We should head back."

"Go ahead without me," said Madara, and let his emotionless deadpan of a "_don't argue with me_" face let her know he wouldn't be convinced otherwise. Still, she had taken time to help him however she could. That pricked at his conscience, tiny as it was. "Your words aren't wasted. They're… helpful. Thank you."

Naori's severe face melted into a smile. "Good. I'll see you later, then."

Once again, it was only Madara. Only, it was Madara and the rush of water and the chirps of birds in their nighttime flight patterns. There was a marked difference between loneliness and taking time to breathe in peace.

He picked up a flat stone and tossed it at the river.

It sank.


	9. Gentle Branches Follow the Avalanche

The sky was streaked with clouds that were swept along by long drafts, which the birds followed with an ease that was enviable. A couple vultures circled low over an area, where there likely laid a corpse of some unfortunate animal.

"I'd think those vultures were an omen if there weren't so many when we moved out here."

Madara didn't bother replying to Izuna, keeping his eyes fixed to the sky. He was certain a couple of his birds were up there. Not that he minded his birds taking joyrides through the wind, but he'd specifically sent them out to deliver messages. They were all exceptionally well trained, but even the best of animals got distracted on the rare occasion. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a sharp black eye up there, glittering down at him.

__I see you__, Madara tried to relay through glares alone.

He lifted a hand to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle that made Izuna wince.

A beautiful falcon—though it went without saying he was beautiful, as all falcons, in Madara's expertise, were beautiful—parted from the other circling birds to land on his arm. He wasn't wearing an armbrace, something that had gotten him many lectures from the old keeper of the aviary, as well as many talon scars.

"Did something happen?" said Madara at last.

Izuna exhaled noisily. "__No__. If something so dire was happening, I would not have waited for you to get your bird. "

"Falcon."

"I know that," Izuna huffed. The circles under his eyes hadn't faded and he was starting to develop the same twitchy, harried expression Naori often had. "There's a mission for you."

"Let me see it," said Madara.

"I thought it'd be best to inform you in person," said Izuna. "There's some details that I don't want missed—but I'll give you the written mission form later, too. Stop glaring at me."

Madara relented, before addressing the falcon.

"Home," he said, and the falcon took off in the direction of the Uchiha settlement. Crossing his arms, he turned to fully face Izuna. "What's so delicate about this mission that you have to deliver the details in person?"

"It's not that it's delicate, it's just…well, you're going to Snow Country." Izuna seemed to think that cleared everything up, which it didn't. "You know? __Snow__ Country?"

"It's fairly cold there year-round, I'll have to pack warm. What else?"

"It's __Snow Country!__"

"And?" said Madara, frowning. Sometimes his joints ached in the cold, and his hands and feet were more prone to numbness than others—the consequences of getting frostbite as a child, his stint with the Kaguya Clan. He could regulate his chakra well enough to keep himself fairly warm, though.

"It's only the place where Professor Yurimoto is showing off his collection," said Izuna, eyes wide in disbelief. "The place rumored to hold incredibly powerful items of importance. On top of that, he found evidence linking his family to several ancient noble lines."

"He built a house dedicated to his own riches?" said Madara.

"Look, he's paying well, and there's supposed to be scraps of journals and everything—do you even __know__ how valuable journals are to—"

"Right, well what have I got to do with this?"

"The grand opening is happening in a couple days," said Izuna. "He's afraid people will—well, you know. Ransack the place."

"That's what happens when you turn your wealth into an open spectacle."

__"Anyway__, he needs bodyguards and someone to make sure the place stays in one piece__,"__ said Izuna. "It kills me to give the mission to you, though. Seeing the grand opening myself…"

He broke off with a sigh.

"I'll make sure to stare wistfully at a few clay tea cups for you," said Madara. "I can't guarantee a poetic speech about the artsmanship, though."

Izuna shook his head, poorly hiding a twitching smile. "Of all the times to grow a sense of humor."

"I have a sense of humor," said Madara. "You've just got to know how it works."

"In crude and unfathomable ways, I'm sure," said Izuna with enough dryness to rival both Naori and the desert they lived in. Decoding those messages must have really gone badly. "Anyway, I can't go—I'm too close to figuring out something with these messages. The only reason the Professor went to us was because I've been in contact with him before."

"I should not be surprised you managed to get him to respond."

"I'm tenacious," said Izuna with a toothy grin. "And he seemed interested in a shinobi who cared for more than 'war and death,' in his own words."

"Judgmental __and__ pompous. Nice."

"He pays well, that's what matters," said Izuna, rolling his eyes. "He needs the place guarded. He asked for me, but since I'm not available, I offered the next best thing."

After a quick explanation, Izuna left the written debriefing with him.

Popular civilian belief had it that shinobi could summon chariots of fire, sprout wings, or simply teleport wherever they needed to go at any random moment. Contrary to those misguided beliefs, most shinobi used their feet. Madara had long since stopped feeling amused at most civilian's thoughts and assumptions about shinobi and shinobi operations.

The guarding took place in three days, which was cutting it close for travel times. Three days had them arriving at the town probably exactly at the time of the opening.

He was strapping extra pouches to his belts and prepping his warmer gear for the trip when there was a cough his door.

Naka wasted no time inviting himself inside.

"Tajima-sama has ordered me to accompany you," he said. "Sorry, no quiet strolls alone. Because we all know that dusty pottery calls to you."

Naka had always had a horrible sense of humor, and Madara wasted no time silently informing him of that fact by breezing passed him without a word. He also filed Tajima ordering Naka to accompany him without informing him first away, to get annoyed about later.

"So, Snow Country?" said Naka. "I was just getting acclimated to the dry heat, too."

"I thought you liked the heat here."

"Everything has a downside."

With that cheerful statement, they finished prepping and set out for Snow Country. Naka was easy to travel with. He didn't complain much and, for the most part, kept to himself. He was never one for meddling in others' business.

That meant the majority of the trip north was spent in silence. A few minutes were spent admiring oddly-shaped trees or the random caravan passing through, until Madara fell into what was inevitable in most long stretches of silence. That was to say, he became reflective. Not the kind of reflective where his thoughts strayed into dark places and it showed on his face, but the sort that had him replaying fond memories. It was a companionable silence, after all—comfortable. Too comfortable, in retrospect.

Madara was probably the only person capable of going stir-crazy __while on the move__. With lack of anything constructive to think about—because __past-future__ was not an option and Naka was about as interesting as the trees—he kept thinking of the strange things trees reminded him off. Sturdy, stout and tall—trees had existed long before him, and would exist long after. If Hashirama's trees were the same, a piece of him, too, would live on long after his death.

He would have picked a fight and wrestled Hashirama into a river by now, in the past. Even if just to avoid __reflection__. But now he was reflecting on the desire to push Hashirama into a river. Or not even into a river—just a good shove. But still, though the river in his memories reflected many lazy days, it could not show him Hashirama's face.

No recent memory could give him that, and the place where those sorts of thoughts lay weren't fit for thinking of while he was on the road. Not when he needed to be on the lookout for anything—traps, ambushes, or sudden spikes of killing intent—

Spikes like the one that hit him the moment he touched ground outside the town they were sent to visit.

He flung a kunai into the bushes, armed with an explosive-tag, to smoke the enemy out. No one showed themselves, having either ran when they realized their target was no ordinary shinobi, or retreated to plan.

"We should make chase," said Naka. "Whoever that was might've been the reason we were hired in the first place."

"Let's meet our client first," said Madara, eyes still trained on the forest line. Both of them had their sharingan activated, standing poised and eerie in the fading daylight. "And no, you can't go after them."

"It would save time."

"Splitting up is always a terrible move," said Madara. "And in this case, I don't want you burning down any buildings while I'm not here."

"That was __one time__ and for the __last time__, I didn't even start that fight!"

Naka grumbled the entire way into the town. It was well kept, with clean streets and relatively happy looking people. Madara knew a quick trip down any alleyway would change the feeling of the town immediately, but the citizens did a good job of pretending everything was alright. Madara couldn't bring himself to relax the moment they stepped into town. Not that that meant much, for one who rarely relaxed at all.

Once they passed deeper into the town proper, Naka finally picked up a one-sided chatter that was entirely unnatural. His smile was fake and his eyes were deadly, but no one who didn't know him would see it. They would only see two young men having a good time, albeit armed to the teeth.

__Having half of a good time__, shot out an inner critique that sounded strangely like Izuna. __You scowl like an unhappy bride.__

Indeed, the act was unrequited on Madara's side. He had never been good at faking smiles.

"Where's our friend?" said Naka, after they'd walked the main streets and found no one matching the description of their client.

"Around here somewhere."

"Helpful!"

"I try," said Madara.

Naka's smile took on the consistency of plaster.

"Walk down the streets like that and people will think you're threatening to bite them," said Madara.

"Acting critique from the guy who can't act—"

He stopped, as a man started weaving through the sparse groups of people in their direction.

"That him?"

Madara had expected someone tall, somehow. Dressed nicely, maybe a well-groomed beard and a clipped, poetic way of speaking. Maybe Izuna's dramatic mooning over that explorer he'd been following for years had rubbed off on his expectations. Whatever the case, the man was certainly not dressed nice, well-groomed, or seemed particularly academic. He looked more like the type one saw hanging outside a gambling establishment, panhandling for more money to spend on gambling.

He waited for the man to do something unfortunate, such as interacting with himself in any way, shape, or form, and was started and a little confused to see the man pull out a sigil that identified him as their client. He didn't want to be judgmental, but those were __grease stains__.

"Are you a messenger?" said Madara, before the man could even speak.

He looked startled. "Well, no. I am Professor Yurimoto—you may have heard of me, or my books. Are you the shinobi I hired?"

"Where do you need us?" said Madara.

"Is that it?" said Professor Yurimoto. "Just—right, right, to business. Good and succinct. Should we move somewhere more private?"

"Everyone here is in a rush to get to wherever they need to be," said Madara. "This will be plenty private."

"Ah, clever, yes, hiding in plain sight! I should write that down…"

Naka interrupted before Professor Yurimoto could actually put out a notebook. "Are we looking out for specific targets? Is there anyone in particular you know that's after you?"

"Oh, they're not after me—"

"We were followed," said Naka.

Professor Yurimoto was starting to look worried. "By who?"

"We don't know if we were followed," said Madara, strangling down the desire to jab Naka in the ribs.

"But there is a chance—"

"Which is why we need the specifics as to why we were hired," said Madara impatiently. "Your letter did not clarify."

"Oh, well, as you know my museum contains artifacts of high value," said Professor Yurimoto. "During my digs, I often hired mercenary groups for guard against traps and bandits—you know the likes. I… may have overestimated the earnings I would receive for my discoveries and now… they are here to steal them and—perhaps—go for my head."

Madara was already bored. "A standard watch, then. Naka?"

"Already know where to go."

Naka vanished in a swirl of leaves.

"Go about your business. I will shadow you," said Madara.

Professor Yurimoto nodded quickly, like he was a woodpecker trying to put holes in the air, exuding nervousness from every twitch of his body. He was a man curiously afraid of dying, considering his suspected assailants were only mercenary groups and he'd hired two Uchiha.

"I made a plan to visit this lovely teashop—"

"I don't need to know," said Madara.

With that, he vanished.

He appeared on a roof, unbeknownst to the entire town and Professor Yurimoto. As promised, he shadowed the Professor for most of midday. He kept an eye out for Naka, who was notoriously hard to spot even by someone experienced in Naka's way of hiding. He blended into a crowd well, collecting information on the town.

There were plenty of nooks and crannies for Madara to reside in, keeping a watch over the balding head of Professor Yurimoto. He knew the opening of his museum was in the evening, and Yurimoto had to have preparations to do before then, but the man seemed free to wander the streets of town and occupy himself by staring into every shop window. Everything seemed to strike his fancy, and he was a simultaneously frustrating and entertaining person to watch.

Another hour turned and Professor Yurimoto's stomach must have called, as he started perusing the food market. Madara moved accordingly, flitting from one rooftop to the next. He settled for the top of a large building—he suspected it was a gambling establishment of some kind, going off the clientele going in and out of the building—and found a good overhanging to hide under.

His intended hidey-hole was ruined by the fact it wasn't abandoned. What he initially assumed to be a sleeping drunk—he was just thinking about how the __hell__ they got up there in the first place—turned out to be a corpse. The corpse was hours old, in a state of __dead__ that was neither natural nor pleasant.

Limbs severed, head tilted garishly, the body was no longer very human. Madara, having been numbed to gruesome sights years ago, knelt to inspect the body without even a wrinkle of his nose.

Killed with a vengeance, he decided, and for a purpose that had nothing to do with the actual victim. The victim's clothes were that of a commoner, their wallet was sparsely filled, but not the sort of empty that mean they were a beggar, or recently emptied it out on the establishment below. There was a ring, left untouched, on the victim's hand. A necklace around their mutilated neck, the silver chain long since stained brown and black.

The rooftop was too clean for those wounds.

Madara flashed to another roof, secured a sight on Professor Yurimoto, and then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He slid it over a tattoo on his palm and planted the seal on the ground. A second later, a tiny and grumpy hawk appeared.

"Fetch Naka."

"For a price."

"Three worms."

"A griffon."

"One fish."

"Make it a baker's dozen."

"Deal."

"Brat," said the hawk, who was aptly called only Hawke, with an E, and took off.

He didn't have to wait long before Naka appeared behind him in the same way he'd disappeared earlier, in a swoosh of leaves. While he absently plucked a few leaves from his flat, shiny brown hair, Madara related what he'd found on the other roof. There was no need to divide his attention between Naka and their client, but Madara kept an eye on Naka's reaction. Predictably, he was annoyed.

"If I'd followed whoever tailed us before—"

"You may have found the assailant, or you could have been led on a wild goose chase," said Madara. Something in his soul was calling to start fires and smoke out their quarry, while instinct and experience leaned towards caution. "There's no telling. Whoever is after the Professor is making a move now, though, so we must remain vigilant."

"Always am," said Naka. "I'll start rooting around for rumors. Maybe someone new is in town, or got bad vibes from a passerby—you know the drill."

Madara nodded sharply. "As you were."

They parted ways again.

Below, in the steadily thinning food market, Professor Yurimoto had finished his meal. He turned to window-shopping again, going vendor to vendor to look at the open wares, sweating profusely and patting his wallet as though he wasn't a multi-millionaire. Madara would have rolled his eyes, but that would have required looking away for a second. A second was sometimes all it took.

The sun tilted higher in the sky. A sparrow flitted across the rooftop behind Madara, making a racket. He sighed, brushing wild hair back and rolling his shoulder, which was starting to ache for no apparent reason. As he was hoping his hands wouldn't join in, they started thrumming a pain-dance of their own in tandem with his shoulder. His hands had not been the same since that night spent in the tender care of the Kaguya Clan.

He flexed his hand, hoping to relieve the symptoms—his hand popped with a flash of sharp pain at the same time as something dark zipped across the street below him. The pain registered secondhand as he followed the movement, making a spot for everything bothering him in the back of his head, so he could focus on the task on hand. He could take it out and agonize over it, later.

A figure was doing their utmost to blend back with the crowd. The person almost succeeded, only Madara had seen those movements prior and knew a shinobi when he saw one.

Signaling Naka, who had lingered close in case of such a quick necessity, Madara descended. Someone else must have been watching, because the shinobi knew to make a run for it. It was a good attempt, too—fast and agile, leaping over vendors and people alike, and during one moment of quick thinking, the shinobi had crawled under a carriage to try and disappear.

Madara kept up step for step, and eventually cornered the shinobi in an alley.

"You left the Professor to himself?" said the shinobi, still turned so all Madara could see was a broad back.

"He's in good hands," said Madara.

The shinobi hummed doubtfully. "Are you sure? I had a man running circles around your subordinate."

Naka was not technically Madara's subordinate, but now was not the time for technicalities.

"Where are the rest of your people?" said Madara, pulling out wire, preparing to tie the shinobi up. "How many? And what are you intentions for Yurimoto?"

"I don't care about the professor," said the shinobi.

"I know you don't care, but whoever hired you to take care of him does," said Madara. "So, you can tell me their names while you're answering the other questions. And __get talking—__I am not the patient sort."

There was quite a bit Madara could do with the sharingan alone to make the shinobi talk.

"Well, then, I'd better get started," said the shinobi. "Would not want to test the patience of the scary Uchiha, hmm?"

They turned, and Madara realized why they'd known he was following. Pearly white eyes stared at him, set into a pale face touched with a bit of sunburn.

"There's a good few of us around," said the shinobi. "Our intentions for Yurimoto are the orders we were given by our clients. Our clients were some previous associates of the professor who he did not part on good terms with. As for __where__… I haven't the foggiest."

Madara flung a kunai that skimmed by the Hyuuga shinobi's long black hair, severing a few strands.

"The next one goes through your head."

"How will I answer your delightful questions if my head is punctured?" said the shinobi. "Oh, and since you seemed to have forgotten, my name is Hyuga Takuya. 'Oh, a Hyuga? Not with the clan? How odd!' Why yes, it is odd, you see, but one day I thought to myself, 'Takuya, why don't you branch out?' and things have been a bit hectic since—"

Madara regretted cornering Hyuga Takuya for questioning.

"I don't care," he said. "Answer my questions correctly."

"Three, maybe. Four, if Shou doesn't stop picking up every sob story found on the streets."

A headache leapt to share the pain in his hands and shoulder.

"That is a very unorganized operation," said Madara. "Now, __where?__"

"Somewhere," said Hyuga Takuya flippantly, waving a hand around. They were utterly relaxed. "Maybe in town. Maybe they got out already."

Madara flung two more kunai. The wire he'd attached to them clotheslined Hyuga Takuya, pinning him, choking, to the wall.

"Last warning," said Madara, grabbing the wire and twisting, just shy of being taut enough to draw blood.

"You might not like the answer," said Hyuga Takuya. "Might be a little disappointed—__ah__, but since you're so insistent: it's already done. My people are outside of town by now."

"Outside town? They aren't here for Yurimoto?"

"Well, no. The merc groups he pissed off were more angry about the lack of pay they received," said Takuya. "Money received does not match money reaped in other party's part of the deal—that sort of thing. They were not informed Professor Yurimoto would make so much money off this."

Everything clicked into place. Hyuga Takuya wasn't there for Professor Yurimoto, but to run interference around town and act as a decoy while the rest of his people completed their true mission. If they were shinobi half as quick as Takuya, they could have been halfway out of Snow Country by now.

Stung by failure, Madara reared a fist back to knock Takuya out. He'd already failed one part of the mission, but that didn't mean he couldn't bring in a scapegoat to take the fall for it.

Only, using flexibility Madara hadn't known people were capable of, Takuya twisted his leg straight up and kicked Madara in the neck. It didn't wind him, or cause any injury, but it was shocking enough that Madara's grip on the wire around Takuya's neck loosened. Slippery as a snake, Takuya escaped and darted over the top of the wall and vanished from sight.

"I'll deal with you later," said Madara to the empty alleyway, full of dark promise.

He barreled out into the street, signaled Naka to stay put (and keep watch), then whistled sharply. With a dry rustle of feathers, one of his raptors landed, intelligent black eyes glinting at him.

"Find them," he said.

Most birds would have had trouble understanding such obscure, complex orders. Madara's birds were not most birds, and he took pride in them.

An unexpected sweep of long, dark hair caught his sight. He was crossing an intersection and had to swerve to avoid a carriage when he stopped in the middle of the road on reflex, his heart leaping with what definitely wasn't terror. He searched the sea of faces for a familiar one.

The carriage rider yelled a few choice words, snapping Madara out of a trance that was, frankly, embarrassing.

Unbidden, Izuna's voice came to mind: __It's just the way you seem to get lost in thought sometimes. I miss talking to them, too.__

Appalled by the memory, Madara sprinted at the forest, as though he could physically run from what happened. He wished he could be his bird, soaring the skies, leading him to the enemy, instead of finding fragments of Hashirama in every passerby.

He located the group of shinobi in the forest. Their tracks had led along the road out of the town, before diverting in an attempt to throw off any chasers. It was a good attempt, if only because Madara had really wondered if they were fool enough to take the road out of town. He almost followed the road and completely missed the trail leading away.

By the time he caught up to them, they were a good distance from the town. Far enough that Madara, even with his keen hearing, couldn't make out the hubbub of movement, carts squealing, crowds talking over crowds, and vendors calling out their wares. It was a welcome silence, but came at the cost of dealing with three absolute amateurs. Not that he'd been out looking for a challenge, but he wouldn't have minded stretching his limbs in combat—maybe burning down some trees, just to watch Naka's face turn colors.

The three shinobi had expressions ranging from "child caught with the cookie jar" to "rogue caught with his hand down a noblewoman's purse." As in, one was fourteen and definitely coerced, one was old enough to know better, and the other was rearing for a fight.

The one that was old enough to know better was redheaded, which concerned Madara for a number of reasons. Far be it from him to assume one's background based on hair color, but it was common knowledge that were redheads, and he was neither equipped nor mentally prepared for dealing with a rogue Uzumaki's tricks.

"Uchiha!" said the child, glancing between his compatriots as though to reaffirm what he'd said.

"That is an Uchiha, Kyo, very good," said the redhead. "I am Ikeda Anka, pleasure to make your acquaintance. Is there any reason you stopped us while we were on our way?"

"Or are we going to have a problem?" said one of the others, a young man with stripes down his cheeks that informed Madara he was probably a member of the Inuzuka Clan. Strange for one of such a close-knit clan, whose strength was built on blood ties and bonds with their familiars, to be away from their family.

"That depends on whether or not you cooperate," said Madara. "It's been a long day and my patience is not what it once was."

Or ever was. Hashirama was the one with patience for people.

Ikeda Anka was not one to go down quietly. She patted Kyo, the child, on the head, and smiled blithely at Madara. The look might have worked if she was dressed as some rich nobleman's highly sheltered daughter, but she was not. The broad sword strapped to her back, nearly as tall as Madara, didn't help her cause.

"Your cargo?" Madara prompted, in one more last-ditch attempt at diplomacy. He almost thought Izuna would have been proud, until he remembered Izuna was just as stab happy—maybe more-so—as him. Naori, at least, would be pleased with his restraint.

(Now that he thought about it, Naori had jabbed a senbon through Naka's arm a few weeks ago. The two of them had been arguing over shogi, and Naka had blurted something about cheating, which she took exception to.

She had laid into him with flame and blade and a kind of vehemence that Madara thought only he ever did. So, Naori wasn't quite the cool river of diplomacy that some Uchiha—the Elders, in particular—made her out to be.

The Uchiha as a whole seemed prone to striking out at random times for any odd reason. Hissed words and narrowed eyes were all behaviors seen in most Uchiha, and when spotted, needed to be handled with utmost care. Madara would have suggested flashing a light with something reflective, but then he would have had to kill the person he informed. The world was not ready to know about that side of the Uchiha Clan.)

"The cargo you stole from Yurimoto's household of trinkets," said Madara. "You have five seconds."

"I think you mean museum," sneered the Inuzuka, jutting his chin out.

"Five… four… three…"

Madara activated a __shunshin__, flashing forward instantly, to Ikeda Anka and lodged a kunai at the hilt of her broad sword. He held an explosive tag in his free hand, tied to a wire, which was connected to several other wires in the area.

Of the pitifully short list of good things that came from having future knowledge, an expanded encyclopedia of jutsu was one of them. The __kage bunshin__ was a great example of having tricks up his sleeve that was were both unfair and useful. While he'd given his barest minimum attempt to convince the shinobi to give up their stolen cargo peacefully, a clone of himself—created on the fly, moments before he burst onto the group of shinobi—had started setting up traps.

The entire forest area was rigged to blow. Madara wasn't concerned for himself—he could move fast enough to clear the explosion before gaining any injuries. He was fairly certain Ikeda Anka could manage it, too. However, unless Kyo was a lot stronger than he let on, he would get caught up in the blast.

"Why aren't we doing anything?" gritted out the Inuzuka from clenched teeth, shoulders hunched. Madara suddenly noticed the blaring absence of a dog at his side. The dog could have been hiding, or, more likely, it was dead.

"Because your leader, unlike you, has half a brain," said Madara.

"And what do you think you know about me?" said the Inuzuka.

"You're a walking ecosystem of tells in a jacket, Inuzuka Shou," said Madara, taking a leap of chance with the given name. Going off the way the Izuzuka went ashen, he was correct. Hyuga Takyua had mentioned a Shou, after all. "Is the little one another stray of yours?"

The little one, being Kyo, who was—

Who was __completely gone__.

It wasn't the sudden appearance of a kunai at his neck that surprised him. Nor was it the fact Kyo was, apparently, a lot stronger than he let on that made him completely reevaluate the triad of shinobi.

Kyo's body was a swirl of ash and dust, a miniature disaster of nature armed with the weapons of mankind. It was fitting that his voice was hard and cold as he said, "I am no one's stray dog."

Some child he was. Yet, that __still__ wasn't the thing that threw Madara off. Strange children walked the world, and he had once been one of them. Kekkei genkai and hiden jutsu varied clan to clan, person to person, so stumbling across someone with a kekkei genkai was hardly a shock.

Experiencing firsthand a stab to the face with a kunai __did__ come as a shock.

A short distance away, Madara's clone went up in smoke. He caught a glimpse of a figure moving so fast, their face was nothing more than an after-image. Dark hair, a glimmer of something pale and bright, and then __stab__—it was all over.

Madara—the real one—twisted the kunai locking down Anka's broad sword and forced her to drop it. He kicked backwards, but Kyo, still in ashen form, swirled around it. With such close proximity, a fight was risky for both of them, so Madara decided to take the first step for the both of them and blew out a stream of fire so hot it would have set the souls of the dead on fire on their way down to hell. Forget precision strikes—he was in a __burn everything down__ kind of mood.

When the fire cleared, he saw the charred remains of a log and sighed. In a tree above them, Inuzuka Shou had a writhing Kyo tucked under one arm. They seemed to be arguing—something about fire and wind, but Madara couldn't make out any of it under the sudden onslaught of killing intent.

The face-stabber had arrived. He had deceptively soft features, tall and willowy. The flash of white Madara's clone had seen before being destroyed were the pearls woven into his black hair.

"Tama, right on time," said Anka, perched on another tree branch. "This one is going to give us problems."

"An Uchiha," said the newcomer. "Dangerous, but doable. Tetra."

The four shinobi moved into various, obviously planned, positions around the forest. Madara watched them, curious despite himself. He was no sensor like Tobirama, but he could tell the only one of them who posed even a mild threat was Tama. Even then, Madara simply did not feel the hair-rising tension of a battlefield so thick with chakra he could taste it, or hear the sing of metal moving quick as fluid silver.

When Tama moved, blade meeting Madara's, it didn't push his heels into the ground, and wasn't filled with such determination that his bones rattled.

He side-stepped Inuzuka Shou's clawed strike—thought better of it in the milliseconds between movements—and snatched Shou's wrist. He flung Shou bodily into Anka as she tried to sneak around his back.

Blocking another strike from Tama, whose frown of concentration was turning into a scowl, he molded chakra for a fire jutsu. If the last one hadn't taken care of Kyo, this one would. Kyo's eyes were wide, young, but already cold.

Madara turned the hand signs for his fire jutsu into a wild grab for Tama's fancy hair pearls and repeated his last move against Anka, but this time aimed his human projectile at Kyo. It was quicker, anyway. And the yelp Tama made the moment he realized what was happening was amusing.

"Just give up," said Madara. "You're outmatched."

In hindsight, he should have known better than to say that. Rarely did people react well to being told to give up. Whether it was from pride or determination, most people were stubborn by nature.

Tama picked himself off Kyo, then hauled the boy up by his collar. His face smoothed into a smile, placid and unassuming—and unnerving. There was a hint of sharp teeth in his smile, but everything else was guileless. Not even a shred of that powerful killing intent from earlier.

"All I need is the cargo your companions stole—" started Madara, but stopped as a wave of exhaustion hit him and he slurred the words. It felt like the sudden crash after a sugar rush, but a thousand times worse. His heart labored for each beat in his chest, his head pounded with it. "What is…"

"NOW!" Tama yelled, shoving past Kyo and pulling his sword from where it had lodged in the ground at his feet. He lashed out, quick as a snake, at Madara.

Madara remembered the kunai stabbing his clone's face. He saw Izuna telling him that he sometimes stared off into space, as though lost. Strange, that in the moments before his head was severed from his body, he would think of that conversation. He couldn't fully remember what the conversation had been about.

The blade fell—the forest soared, roots and branches cracking and groaning torturously as they were forced out of the shapes they'd assumed for centuries. The blade was stopped inches before Madara's throat, barely whispering against his skin. A warm trickle of blood rolled down his throat.

Roots shot from the ground and wrapped around the fouer shinobi. They clamped their desperate, fighting figures to the forest floor. A figure landed in front of them, hands falling out of a sign, and Madara remembered. The conversation, the person Izuna had claimed he'd __missed__—

Senju Hashirama.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for the comments, follows and favorites! 3**


	10. To Make Wildflowers from Ashes

The Senju Clan was tucked away in the forest, clad in an armor of wood with all the compact sturdiness of an iron giant. However, even the sturdiest iron giant had a mortal weakness, and the Senju Clan was no exception to the rule. It killed not to be cautious.

As such, Hashirama's story went as followed:

He kept close tabs on all of the high risk clans. High risk clans, obviously, were categorized as clans that posed a risk to the security of the Senju Clan as being the indisputable iron giant of the Fire Country forests. There weren't many clans that qualified for the list, all things considered, especially as Hashirama grew older and stronger and his name was spread outside Fire Country like some kind of god or demon, depending on who was talking.

Luckily, if the Senju Clan was good at anything, it was keeping tabs on what the neighbors were doing. They were nosy, even so far as shinobi clans went. They had a spy in every corner of the world and Hashirama had spores on all those spies.

"Never," said Kawarama, face buried in his hands, "and I truly mean never, ever, say that again. I don't want to think about your spores."

"It wasn't weird until you made it weird," said Tobirama.

Itama grimaced. "No, it was weird."

The recent years had been witness to his brothers' growth spurts. In particular, Kawarama had shot up like poplar trees in monsoon season, nearly head level with Hashirama. He had tried to measure Tobirama, but Tobirama threatened to raise the dead on Hashirama—coming from anyone else, the threat was baselessly dramatic. Coming from Tobirama, it was a terrifying possibility that Hashirama was not willing to tempt. Tobirama had been dropping hints about reviving corpses like too much foreshadowing in a bad book. Hashirama was not going to give him a reason to actually raise the dead.

Opposite to his more boisterous brothers, Itama quietly studied and practiced his jutsu. Specifically, he had taken an interest in genjutsu. He was often too busy being curled over a scroll, or into a fighting stance, for Hashirama to get a good gauge for how much he had grown. It made him sad to see them leaving behind their childhood, but at the same time he was so very proud of them.

Small disputes over height aside, they were the three most reliable people in his life. He would have liked them to be in control of the information circulating about the Uchiha Clan, but Senju Butsuma had put them—in his opinion—to "better use."

Kawarama charmed his way through joint missions with other clans. Itama was kept researching new jutsu with Tobirama, and occasionally sent out on minor scuffles with warring clans approaching too close to the border. However, Tobirama was more than capable of micromanaging several operations at once. Even if he didn't start out micromanaging a situation, he had a habit of somehow ending up in control anyway.

It could have been because of his position as the son of the Clan Leader. It could also have been the fact he'd created several useful jutsu before the age of fifteen. More than likely, though, it was the way his glare sculpted into a person's will to live and left them with little in way of words.

Hashirama always trusted information that came from Tobirama. Once that information came in, he gave his own, slightly edited, version of what he'd learned to Butsuma. He wasn't outright lying, just omitting certain details.

It wasn't in Hashirama's nature to lie to people, shinobi or not. There was a reason he charged onto battlefields with all his strength, and it wasn't because he wanted people to whisper 'force of nature' behind his back. It was an honest way of fighting. "Person A" had a kunai, some trip wire, and a slip of explosive paper; Hashirama turned the very ground they stepped on against them. Fair and even.

Maybe not so even—but the battlefield was fair play. Try to stab him, and he'd stab back.

He also considered himself laidback. As laidback as a shinobi could be, at least. As always, there were exceptions, and Butsuma had a talent for stomping all over Hashirama's every exception.

"Hashirama, do you have something to add?" said Butsuma at one meeting, when Hashirama couldn't muster a neutral expression fast enough.

The incense the Elders liked to burn during meetings to keep the air calm only served to make Hashirama's head pound. It wasn't the only thing giving him a headache. However, since Butsuma had so kindly called him out—

"Our missions involving other clans is looking… thin," said Hashirama, with as much delicacy as he could manage. Delicacy wasn't really his strong suit. He liked big statements and promises, with the strength and resources to back them up. "There are no shortage of assassinations and bandits on the highway to clear out, for sure, but it isn't prudent to focus entirely on one side of our operations."

Get your act together, Hashirama wouldn't say aloud. The Uzumaki Clan are drawing away from our alliance.

The Elders grumbled faintly in agreement, but Butsuma cut in.

"And who are you getting these opinions from? Kawarama?" said Butsuma, scoffing. "The boy delights in having fun. Missions aren't fun. As for the focus of our operations, am I to presume you have a better idea?"

Before Hashirama could reply, Butsuma was talking again.

"Hashirama, your power is impressive, truly worthy of praise and respect," said Butsuma, "however, there is more to leading a clan than uprooting a battlefield."

With that, he directed the topic of the meeting elsewhere, leaving Hashirama steaming silently. He was probably leaking chakra, going off the way a few of his clanmates kept throwing him nervous sideways glances.

Butsuma hadn't always been like this. Hashirama knew nearly five decades of life and loss changed him. Yet, when a golden horizon seemed as easy as laying down planks for a leaking roof, Hashirama found it hard to muster pity.

He was a believer in making change. If the world was so terrible, change it. He could do it. They could do it.

Nakano River had glimmered as golden as that sunset he dreamed of in the morning. Early mornings spent waiting for Madara were remembered with a wistful warmth in his chest. He took that warmth and bubbled it for the moments he went to collect a mission that would take him close to the desert regions—the areas he knew the Uchiha Clan had settled in recent months. It was as close as he could get to the Uchiha Clan, because Butsuma had blocked off every avenue to them after that disastrous meeting years ago.

Another day, another meeting, and more buttons pushed. Hashirama suspected Butsuma enjoyed watching his temper unravel.

Hashirama thought he was subtle mentioning a clan to the north. They were an isolationist clan that had sent down a couple shinobi recently as a traditional rite of passage—a year in the world outside their clan. The shinobi in question happened to be passing close the desert where the Uchiha Clan lived.

"I imagine Tajima's spawn has grown," said Butsuma, although Hashirama hadn't mentioned Madara by design. Doubtless it was alert him he wasn't nearly as subtle as he hoped. "Touka was sent to greet them. She reports a success, though they aren't open to talking."

Butsuma wasn't subtle, either. Then again, he wasn't trying to be. Sometimes it felt like they were slinging petty, passive aggressive blows at each other.

"I noticed the farmlands tripled their original size," said Butsuma.

"There's a few clans who would benefit from sharing extra reserves," said Hashirama without preamble. "A few connections I made during a previous mission to Grass Country could be useful, too."

"I would prefer stocks are kept within the clan for an extended period," said Butsuma, waving away Hashirama's suggestion with a sheaf of papers. "Last winter was harsh and the Elders are predicting the next one to be just as difficult."

"Our greatest strength has always been in our close relationships with other clans," said Hashirama, strangling down the thread of iron in his voice, so he didn't sound too authoritative. Butsuma never took well to people sounding as though they knew better.

"We've hardly cut ties," said Butsuma. "Is there anything else you would like to bring to my attention?"

There was plenty Hashirama would have liked to bring up, but nothing he could, unless he wanted an argument on his hands. If there was a chance to change his father's mind, he would take it. However, he had spent five years trying and failing, and the uphill battle was losing its appeal.

The Senju Clan was not invulnerable and people were not so good-willed to take being ignored too many times. Distance meant relying on words, carefully articulated and chosen, to portray intentions. Long periods of silence allowed for those words to be questioned, second guessed, and thought over time and again. Old grudges had a way of flaring to life in the coldest months, when stomachs went hungry and old war wounds ached with vengeance.

While clans like the Kaguya rampaged at their borders, the Hyuuga retreating into the mountains further towards Cloud Country, and Hagaromo withdrew all their scouting regiments without warning, the Senju Clan became secluded.

"Would you prefer we stormed the world?" said Butsuma during a meeting of the Elders, when Hashirama brought up the topic of the other clans. "We lose too many people in clashes with other clans."

Irritation lashed inside him. That wasn't what he'd implied at all.

Outside, summer was in full swing, the chime of insects rising over the treetops. The humidity was making the tips of Itama's hair curl—though, that wasn't the only thing making his hair curl. The likely cause was Kawarama, who was doing that eyebrow thing he always did to get everyone's attention. He'd also positioned himself behind Butsuma, which was never a good sign.

Itama's face was doing some complicated expressions, trying to silently communicate with Kawarama without alerting anyone—especially Butsuma—that anything was happening.

Hashirama, distracted by Kawarama, almost didn't notice Butsuma's steadily growing impatience. Even when he did notice, the threads of the point he'd been about to make—he was sure it was a killer one, too—were completely lost.

"Keeping contact with allies is not taking the world by storm," said Hashirama, and then, because he wasn't leaving empty air between his words for people to interpret them wrong, he added, "It's paranoid to hole ourselves up and rely on our own forces—that's what people outside the clan will say. Short-term, perhaps, but what if there is an emergency? And what if we need to—stop—"

Hashirama almost cracked halfway through, biting his teeth in a grin when Kawarama started doing odd dance. He was so taking advantage of the fact the Elders weren't attending the meeting.

"—stop relying on our forces, if we need aid from an outside clan—will they trust us enough to listen to the advice."

Kawarama was on the verge of tears, shoulders shaking in mirth. Hashirama, on the other hand, thought he had a death wish. Jokes were fun and great when the person they played jokes on wasn't inclined to swing a fist. And then Hashirama would have to intervene—hell would freeze over before he watched someone, even family, especially family, hurt his brothers—and the past few weeks had been straining enough without adding to the tension between himself and his father.

Unaware of the commotion behind him, and the conflict it was giving Hashirama, Butsuma mulled over Hashirama's words. He had aged a lot in the past few years, gray streaking his dark hair, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. "Frail" was not a word Hashirama had ever applied to his father, nor did he think he ever would, but sometimes Butsuma reminded him of an old oak. It had grown tall and proud, so tall the roots in the ground no longer could support it in the high winds.

Butsuma, unlike that tree, couldn't be fixed with a couple hand signs from Hashirama. Diplomacy more often than not fell on deaf ears. Shows of force only proved his point: the clan was fine on its own. People were complicated and stubborn, and while Hashirama would never change that, sometimes he wished changing things was as simple as raising a finger and throwing around some killing intent.

"I see where your concerns are originating," said Butsuma, "but our clans' greatest strength has always come from—"

"The clan being united and believing in each other, and love, yes," said Hashirama hurriedly, "but trading with other clans for supplies and offering trade in return does not compromise those ideals. If anything it—it might encourage them to stop behavior that might be construed as distracting—"

Butsuma gave him an odd look, before turning. Kawarama shoved his hands behind his back, coughing.

"Stubbed my toe," he said. "Nothing like a little pain to clear the mind."

"Was it clouded beforehand?" said Butsuma, unamused.

"Not at all," said Kawarama. "Unlike other people, I'm following Hashirama perfectly fine without needing hand-holding."

Standing right next to Hashirama, having listened wordlessly the whole time, Tobirama let out a faint sigh.

"Well, that was the only point I wanted to make with this little meeting!" said Hashirama with a loud laugh, clapping his hands and taking a large, sweeping step towards the door. "I will let you think on everything and come to a decision—Kawarama, Itama, Tobirama, why don't we just let—"

"You are clever, but not that clever," said Butsuma dryly. "I've lived long enough to know when there are troublemakers in the room."

"So you admit you're old—" Kawarama's voice strangled off.

Itama's arm wrapped strategically around Kawarama's shoulders forearm squeezing his throat just a little too tightly to be comfortable or natural.

"Father certainly has experience and wisdom," said Hashirama cheerfully, "which means our ideas are in good hands, so we will take our leave now. There are plants to be planted."

"I have a few projects that need revision," grumbled Tobirama, who had been dragged the meeting halfway through one of those revisions.

Itama pulled Kawarama bodily from the office ("Why are you like this? Why are you like this?!"; "Well, pardon me, I think I'm hilarious."), with Tobirama bringing up the rear. Hashirama went to follow them, but was called back by Butsuma to answer a few questions he expected to be difficult, but ended up revolving, strangely enough, around crops. Or perhaps not so strange, since Hashirama cultivated most of the crops with his own power.

Everything was going fine with that—Hashirama was more than happy to refill the supplies as much as he could with the mokuton, spending less money and manpower than Butsuma. He'd also refreshed the flowers around the Elders' houses and taken the time to help the healers with their medicines that morning.

You're welcome, Hashirama's smile didn't quite say.

Butsuma's gruffly spoken "You did good," probably meant something more along the lines of, "I know what you're doing."

And really, Hashirama had no idea what he was doing. He was just taking care of the clan. And doing a better job than his father.

Later that day, Hashirama and his brothers congregated in the same area they'd been meeting in for years. They had all grown significantly since they were children, so the nook in the walls around the Senju Compound had gotten cramped.

They had all finished their duties and beelined for the place. Or, in the case of Tobirama, was pulled from his revisions again. Hashirama secretly thought he wanted to evaluate every jutsu he knew and find a way to improve them all.

Itama had gotten off a patrol the day before, after a close call with the Hagoromo Clan. They had stumbled across the shinobi unexpectedly, who attacked with all fangs and no regard for their own lives.

One of the shinobi with Itama—a boy not much older than he'd been on his first patrol—had been killed in the crossfires. Itama retired to bed early upon returning from the mission. Going off the deep shadows under his eyes, and the way the slightest bit of tension seemed to make him snap, he wasn't handling it well.

Any number of reasons to strengthen ties with allies sprang to Hashirama's head at any given moment, but it was that patrol that had him marching into Butsuma's free time earlier. It was unannounced, there were no Elders to "distract" Butsuma, and there were no excuses to ignore Hashirama.

Years ago, Hashirama almost lost his brothers on a patrol. Never again, he'd promised himself. He didn't know the name of the boy lost on Itama's patrol, but he knew someone had lost a friend, a sibling, a son. Never again. There would be no more lonely patrols, no more deaths or near-misses—

That was what he would like to say. Until the changes could be put into place to actually ensure that, there would always be lost children.

"Hashirama, hey, are you listening?"

Hashirama was snapped back to the little nook with a start. "Of course."

"Sure you were," said Itama, cracking a smile. "Anyway, as I was saying, you—what were you thinking?"

Kawarama, leaning against a wall, fiddling with a contraption that was made of spinning wheels and maneuverable pieces, gave a shameless grin. "Hey, it was getting dreary. I don't like dreary. And if you disguised me—"

"I am not using genjutsu to disguise you," said Itama.

Kawarama pointed the fiddle toy at Hashirama. "Anyway, why're you looking at me when we've got Mr. Passive Aggressive over there? 'Father has experience and wisdom, now let me go and take care of the clan better, quicker, and more conveniently than you could ever.'"

"I didn't say that," said Hashirama. "And Father does have wisdom, in places."

"Father's wisdom is 'Uchiha bad, Senju good—'"

"Anyway, it's a good thing Hashirama's poker face is good," said Itama, "otherwise Father would have punched you with his 'wisdom.'"

"Maybe I should get into gambling," said Hashirama. "Never hurts to have a little extra cushion in the pockets, right?"

"No," said Tobirama.

Kawarama, who had perked up at the mention of gambling, deflated. "You're no fun."

Tobirama glared at them from over his fur-covered shoulder. The fur was a recent addition to his assemble.

"No."

His voice echoed off the safety of the walls. Hashirama had expected someone to discover their nook before now, but he seemed to have really outdone himself.

"We're getting off topic," said Hashirama.

Kawarama gaped, aghast. "We're going off topic? Who's the one who barreled in here with something important about the Uchiha? And what are we talking about now? Not Uchiha."

"No, that was you," said Itama, taking a seat on the same stump he always claimed. If anyone else ever tried to sit there, he'd stare them down ominously until they moved. "You mentioned that mockingbird running into the windows the other day, because you wanted to talk about what you were doing behind Father's back today."

"Yeah, well—it was hilarious."

"If Father saw you—"

"He didn't, though," said Kawarama. "And that's the point. If he turned, I'd have stopped before he could see me!"

"Dangerous gamble," said Itama.

Tobirama sighed. "I don't like how the both of you keep looping back to gambling. It's a bad habit."

Hashirama reminded himself to hide his cards and poker chips in a more secure place than the underside of his bed.

"We're not actually gambling," said Kawarama.

"Anyway," Itama interrupted, "Hashirama, you did want to say something about the Uchiha, but you never said what."

There was a lot Hashirama could say about the Uchiha, but most of it wasn't the sort of things one said to their brothers.

He had received word a small group of Uchiha had moved from their new encampment in the northern desert, towards a small town in Snow Country. Normally, that wouldn't have warranted much concern, but there was also the news of a famous noble having some sort of display in that same town. The man—a Professor Yurimoto—was one of the few potential allies Hashirama had swayed Butsuma to considering. The man had no ties to shinobi clans—so there was little chances of him being a spy of an enemy clan—and he was rich. (Very rich—the kind of rich that sort of made Hashirama, who definitely wasn't hurting for money, dislike him a bit on default.) Enough said.

While he would defend the Uchiha tooth and nail if need be, for the future alliance he had planned out, there was no ignoring the fact they weren't exactly known for diplomacy. He didn't know why the Uchiha were taking an interest with that particular town and that auspicious time, but he needed to ensure they didn't do anything embarrassing, like stealing from a potential ally. Getting allies to work with allies was just another one of the big hurtles for which Hashirama desperately needed a plan. (Or a lot of money.)

After explaining all of that, he anticipated understanding nods—maybe a couple grim exchanges. What he wasn't expecting was their shared smirk.

"Tell Madara I said 'Hi,'" said Kawarama.

"Now, wait a second—"

Tobirama chipped in, "And tell him to tell Izuna that he'd better be keeping up with the reading, because I have a lot to talk about with him and he needs to keep up."

"I never said anything about—"

"Make sure you two are not completely obvious," said Itama. "People are always watching and we don't want the wrong kinds of words making it to Father's ears."

The injustice made Hashirama's denial rise and fall like a tsunami. A tsunami that wasn't actually a tsunami, but a large wave, and he was the person on the beach panicking over nothing. Nothing at all, because he had no reason to be embarrassed.

"There isn't even solid sources of who is going," said Hashirama. "Madara might not be involved. He's been confined to their encampments."

"Starts with a path," said Itama, flicking invisible dirt from his fingernails.

"Stop," Hashirama moaned, utterly gutted, as usual, by his brothers' brutality.

"There's an tic in there," said Kawarama.

"The word you're looking for is pathetic," said Tobirama, crossing his arms, sliding a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

"Coward. Send a letter," said Kawarama.

"He can't send a letter," said Itama. "He could get himself and Madara in trouble."

"As I said: coward, send a letter."

"Do you want Madara to get booted out of his clan?"

"If it gives Hashirama a chance to sweep him up and end all our misery? Abso-fucking-lutely."

"Language," said Hashirama weakly. He was ignored, which was fine, because he wasn't really trying to scold them. He didn't have room for argument in the first place. It was plainly obvious what his intentions were for showing up, what he needed and when and why.

As stated previously, Hashirama had to clear missions through with Butsuma. Butsuma wasn't keen on letting Hashirama anywhere near the Uchiha Clan.

However, Hashirama always knew who to rely on in a pinch.

"So we have a meltdown on the side—" said Tobirama.

"False alarm from the east—" added Kawarama.

"—and I'll deal with Rikuo's files," said Itama succinctly. "Tobirama, can you-?"

"Already have talismans in place," said Tobirama, arms crossed and looking slightly pleased with himself. "Non-lethal distraction. I've asked Touka to direct people."

"Does Touka know how to direct non-pragmatically?" said Kawarama. "I've never seen her do wasteful and we need wasteful directions."

Itama waved that away. "I gave her some specific instructions for impromptu bad decisions."

A few minutes later, as per The Plan™, the Senju Clan was in an uproar, people running for cover and armor, and Hashirama accepted and reported his mission to Butsuma's turned back.

"Very good," said Butsuma distractedly, knowing Kawarama had something to do with the tables being lodged in trees but unsure how and why. He didn't realize he hadn't heard a word of Hashirama's statements until it was too late.

* * *

Hashirama was halfway to Snow Country when he realized it was probably wise to have a plan of approach. He paced three circles around a random tree, before impatience set in and he was running again. Improvising had worked for him in the past.

Throughout the duration of the travel, he kept a steady reminder that none of the reports had confirmed the identities of the Uchiha. Yet, while nothing confirmed who was in the group, a bird had taken flight in his chest. He was already soaring, certain he was about to meet his old friend after years of being apart.

Scenery turned from green to silvery and white as he left Fire Country and pushed into Snow Country. He had to stop once to rest, but ended up cutting the rest time in half when he found himself pacing around, counting down the seconds. He remembered to drink the water Tobirama had packed and ate the food Itama and Kawarama shoved at him, so he gave himself a pat on the back for that, at least. He needed the extra food as the temperature plummeted, his breath fogging in the air.

As someone decidedly unused to cold weather outside of winter, experiencing snow in the middle of summer was an interesting experience. The air was thinner in Snow Country, the altitude much higher than the rest of the world. The town was set in the middle of deep valley between the mountains.

He wondered if Madara—if Madara was part of the mission—had stopped at all to appreciate the scenery. Somehow, he doubted it. Madara had never been one to pause long enough to smell the flowers, as opposed to Hashirama, who named every flower pot in the Senju Compound and cried when Elder Rikuo's sunflower died. (He was four years old—give him a break.)

Before tracking down the Uchiha, Hashirama scouted out the town. It was a large one, made of a fairly wealthy crowd. The farmers had compensated for the eternally cold weather with greenhouses, which Hashirama couldn't help inspecting a little. He could pick out a few ways they could be improved, and was tempted to hunt someone down for it.

The tallest building appeared to be the town hall, followed by an impressive library. He blended into a crowd of people congregated around another building—a house, by the looks of it. The windows had been smashed out and people were whispering about thieves.

"I don't know what he was expecting," said a person, though Hashirama couldn't locate who, "putting all that wealth on display."

"Stealing is still wrong."

"Well, sure, but at least they stole from the right person."

"I don't know, I think the professor's more of a bumbling idiot than the asshole some people are making him out to be."

There seemed to be a serious discussion about Professor Yurimoto going on in the town at the moment. Some people liked him, others didn't, more still just didn't care. In other words, it was nothing new at all.

No one seemed to have any clues towards the identities of the thieves, leaving Hashirama to figure it out himself. Deep in his heart, he clapped his hands in prayer that Madara had nothing to do with the stealing part. He clearly remembered Madara getting a little possessive over items—he'd outright hissed when Hashirama tried to touch one of his kunai—and once he got an idea in his head, it wouldn't be so easy to dissuade him. Still, Hashirama had faith, for the sake of the future, Madara would listen.

Tracking, for other shinobi, was an involved process that required summons, or the ability to actually pick out tracks. There was definitely a trail left by the thieves, meaning they probably hadn't expected anyone to stop them, but a good deal of the trail had been trampled over by curious onlookers.

Hashirama invited himself into the house, ignoring the calls of the onlookers, to inspect the place. There was an impressively large hall. A few pedestals were on fire, vases were broken. The walls were painted and the center of the house opened to a large garden. Very pleasant to look at—not so pleasant to feel through the "eyes" of a sensor. He stopped by one of the pedestals, made of fine jade and etched with images of monsters and beasts. Whoever designed the house really went all out.

Find Madara warred with How the HELL did this get here?

At a single glance, it was a normal pedestal, intended only to show off fancy items. Undoubtedly, Professor Yurimoto was planning to throw a party to show them all off; gain clout, respect, and the world's attention. However, if one looked closely—as the good explorer obviously had not—they would spot an odd series of flaws in the not-so-fine jade pedestal.

Hashirama formed a hand sign and a few thin vines crawled up the pedestal. Feeling around awhile, he found what was some kind of hidden compartment inside the pedestal. Hard as iron and thin as thread, the vines pushed through the cracks in the jade. He forced it open, to find most of the inside of the pedestal was hollow, with only a socle about the size of his hand inside. There was a clear indent in the socle, where something was supposed to sit.

He pulled the socle out, wrapped in vines, and inspected it. A deep, foul energy radiated from it, so potent it was nauseating. The feeling of wrongness didn't leave until the socle was safely sealed away in a scroll, tucked into his packs.

Unnerving as it was to discover such an awful energy signature, it made tracking down the thieves a lot easier. The energy was all over the building, steeped into the floor and walls, and the thieves had dragged it off with them like the stench of death.

He followed the trail into the forest. And felt a familiar chakra signature, burning bright and starlike within the forest.

Despite having wanted to chance across Madara, he felt it would have been better that Madara was nowhere near the energy he felt in that house. Madara was more of an unconsciously natural sensor than Hashirama, as discovered by Kawarama in their childhood. Kawarama used to channel random spikes of emotive chakra at Madara, just to watch him twitch and scowl at his surroundings suspiciously. There was a chance Madara would notice something was wrong, or worse—that he wouldn't and it would dampen his senses regardless. Truly, Hashirama had never sensed anything like this, and he didn't know what it could do to a sensor.

Arriving at the scene in the forest, Hashirama had to take a moment to watch before acting.

It wasn't anything strategic, though if anyone asked, it definitely was a tactical decision to survey the area.

He'd imagined for a long time the day he met Uchiha Madara again, known there was a chance it would happen with this mission, and somehow it never dawned on him that it would really happen. Part of him kept waiting for the figure below to wink out of existence.

Madara had grown taller, though he was still a good head shorter than Hashirama—which was something that struck him with, frankly, an inappropriate amount of glee. His hair was wild as ever, straggling freely to his waist. He didn't even use a headband to push it back—Hashirama was both impressed and baffled at how he survived with all those hairs tickling his face. (Everyone in his family had some manner of holding their hair back—Tobirama's happuri, Kawarama braided the top half of hair, and Itama kept his hair up in a bun lately.)

Fire curled up the forest as Madara let loose a fire jutsu—the tree branch below Hashirama was suddenly occupied by a shinobi with a squirming child under his arm. They were arguing loudly, and Hashirama gathered the boy had a kekkei genkai that left him weak to wind and fire.

Madara sent the man with pearls in his hair—Hashirama was sure he'd seen that person somewhere before—flying into the boy. While the redheaded woman shot away into the trees, the others regrouped. Madara stood tall as the obvious victor, but Hashirama found himself suddenly tense. He knew every one of Madara's micromovements in battle and outside of it—he knew from a single glance that not much about him had changed. He also noticed without fail the slightly weakened way he took a half-step backwards.

"NOW!" shouted the man.

Madara's back leg gave out.

Hashirama leaped into action without further hesitation. Mokuton was as much a tool as an extension of his body, branches wrapping the enemy shinobi and pinning them to the ground. The Inuzuka—as he could only be an Inuzuka, with those telltale facial markings and fangs—barked such foul language that Hashirama took extra care to gag him. The vines were mostly nontoxic.

A droplet of blood rolled down Madara's neck.

Every fantasized reunion Hashirama had concocted over the years, where he was cooler and much more suave than he was in reality, flew out the door.

"Are you injured?" he asked, thinking that, shinobi or not, it was unfair that most of the times he met Madara found him hurt in some way.

"Hashirama," said Madara, instead of answering, scrutinizing him closely. Hashirama wondered what Madara saw in him—what had changed, what was the same, maybe even things he liked. "You lost that stupid haircut."

Hashirama laughed, fondness flooding him. He strode to give Madara a solid pat on the shoulder. He had missed that frank and blunt way of speaking.

"And you're still mean!"

"I'm honest," said Madara. "It was stupid."

Hashirama would have made a comment about Madara's wild nest of hair, but couldn't really find anything to insult about it. True, it looked like a porcupine might have built a home in it, but it was charming in its way.

There was a bellowing sigh from the ground. The redheaded woman tilted her chin up off the ground.

"Are you two going to finish us off, or…?"

The Izuzuka gave a renewed round of shouting, thrashing in his bindings.

Madara's narrowed eyes gave off every impression that he wanted to finish them off, but instead he said, very coldly, "That isn't necessary. I only need the cargo you stole."

The pearly man gave a cruel laugh. "Don't joke with us. Uchiha don't show mercy."

The Inuzuka's muffled cries had taken a pleading edge, so Hashirama loosened the gag. Immediately, he started talking.

"Do whatever you want to us, but let the kid go. He's young, he hasn't been in this business long. I'm sure if you reach down somewhere really far—really, really far, probably almost nonexistence you coldhearted, selfish, bastard—"

The vined gag silenced him again.

"No need to be rude!" said Hashirama with a hint of force. "You'll find Madara is very merciful, indeed."

"The cargo?" Madara repeated, not one to be derailed from his mission.

The woman gave up with an audible groan. "Fine, whatever. It's in a sealing scroll. As if we're going to carry all the junk ourselves."

The man with pearls in his hair angled his head to her. "That junk was worth a small fortune, Anke."

"We can live to make another small fortune another day," she said.

Hashirama cheered for them from the sidelines ("A wise sentiment! Very good!") while Madara rummaged through the shinobi's supplies for their—apparently stolen—cargo.

The four shinobi were glaring daggers at him and spitting vitriol, but with the exception of the (gagged) Inuzuka, none of it could get to him. He kept getting renewed bubbles of excitement every time Madara so much as breathed in his direction. They had a lot to catch up on.

Madara, who still stubbornly insisted he wasn't merciful, opted to leave the shinobi to their own devices. Hashirama kept them bound by the vines and roots, knowing they'd be able to break free later. They walked deeper into the forest, away from the town and anyone who might see or overhear. Everything seemed fine, and Hashirama was about to launch into long-awaited greetings, until Madara stumbled. Hashirama remembered the moment of weakness earlier, too.

Without prompting, he put a hand on Madara's forehead. It wasn't necessary, technically, but he considered it a formality, and polite, to check over someone's health in an obvious way.

"A mild poison," he concluded, taking out a medicinal pill. He always came prepared. "Take this."

Madara eyed the pill.

"How mild?" he asked.

"Madara," Hashirama chastised lightly, with the same look he gave unruly patients. It always worked, and Madara was no exception.

He scoffed, but snatched the pill anyway. "Fine."

Hashirama gave his proudest grin before he could stop himself. It wasn't his fault that his "unruly patients" were often children, and that smiling encouragingly was habitual.

"It's been years," said Hashirama, when Madara didn't immediately speak. They were looping around in the forest now, feet subconsciously carrying them back to the town. Soon, he'd be able to hear the evening hustle and bustle of carts and people. "How have you been?"

"The Clan has moved around frequently, but we're in a better position now than we were in years past," said Madara—which was something Hashirama already happened to know. He wanted to know how Madara in particular spent the past few years.

They exchanged a few lines of small talk, Hashirama even mentioning the naturally cold weather of Snow Country, before he broke.

"We should arrange another meeting—"

"You should go before Naka finds out you're here," said Madara at the same time.

They stared at each other. Madara seemed to process what he'd said.

"What?! No, that's absurd."

Hashirama might have refrained from touching too much, but Madara had taken the pill without too much protest and didn't mind the shoulder pat. He leaned into Madara's shoulder, putting on his best pout. Madara looked immediately disgusted, but he wasn't put off.

"I know it's a risk—"

"Would you stop being so dramatic, for the love of—"

"—but what's life without a couple risks?" said Hashirama, thinking of every scene from every dramatic forbidden love novel he'd never read once in his life at all, whatsoever. (Itama was a liar.) He slung an arm around Madara's shoulder. It had been so long since they last spoke, Madara had to be swayed a little by begging.

"Don't joke around," snapped Madara. "Our clans literally will kill each other. Go away."

"But I just saved you, and we have so much to talk about," said Hashirama.

"And I haven't thrown you all the way back to Fire Country even once, so let's call it even."

Hashirama really did have serious things he wanted to talk about, but it had been so long, and he didn't know where to start, so he indulged himself just awhile longer.

"Aren't you a little happy to see me?"

Madara's tolerance reached its end, and he started pushing at Hashirama's face. "Get off me!"

"You're still so mean—"

"You're an idiot!"

After a moment of scuffling, Hashirama finally pulled away. The light flush on Madara's cheeks brought him indescribable joy, despite the fact he knew it was probably due to the poison more than anything else.

"What do you think of your client?" said Hashirama, thinking of the small, huffing nobleman he'd seen perusing the streets.

"He's an idiot."

Hashirama nodded sagely, slinking close again. "Is he the kind of idiot we don't talk about, or the idiot who really forgets to pay his bodyguards?"

Madara's turned his head so fast a lock of black hair smacked Hashirama in the face. "You knew that?"

"There's really only so many ways someone like him could make enemies," said Hashirama, biting back a grin as Madara shoved at him. "And going off the skill level of the shinobi sent after him, it was a common offence. Money or something?"

"That's right," said Madara, grudgingly impressed. "Pretty typical stuff."

Hashirama knew, from the extensive spying he'd done on the Uchiha Clan, that this was Madara's first mission away from the clan in a long time. Touka, in her blunt and straightforward way, called him overly scrutinizing—she also reassured him that the Senju Clan was more than strong enough to defend against the Uchiha, in the case of an attack. He couldn't exactly tell her that wasn't the reason he was spying, so his vague response was left to interpretation to the rest of the Senju Clan. Which just meant the Elders were even more paranoid that normal.

The Uchiha were a clan full of powerhouses. Even the small children seemed gifted. Paired with their kekkei genkai, they were a force to be reckoned with, and the way that force was used largely varied depending on the person. Madara, for example, had burnt down half a forest on his first outing. Yet, he'd been very efficient—maybe a little too efficient—killing the bandit groups that had been ambushing people on the roads, so reception was mostly positive. Still, bodyguarding wasn't quite what Hashirama had expected someone to hire someone like Madara for. Search and destroy, definitely—but not defending fragile, old, priceless artifacts. Highly flammable artifacts.

More importantly, artifacts that emanated energy dark enough to put his teeth on edge.

You are growing paranoid, Hashirama, scolded a voice that sounded like Kawarama's.

"You are being remarkably quiet," Madara commented gruffly, arms crossed. "Is something bothering you?"

"Observant as ever," said Hashirama.

He was overjoyed to find his grin mirrored by Madara, with a spark of that familiar pride in the tilt of his chin.

"My eyes are still the best part of me," said Madara.

"Not just your eyes," said Hashirama, before he could think better of it, and got shoved—yet again—on the arm for it. He was going to have a bruise there. He didn't regret it at all, because the growing flush on Madara's face told him two things: One, Madara wasn't unaffected; Two, Hashirama absolutely had a chance. Now, if only he didn't feel like a puppy that had made its first catch, and didn't know what to do with it.

"Don't avoid the question," said Madara, before an odd look crossed his face. "Also, did you roll in something? You stink."

Ouch, thought Hashirama, moping. He just complimented Madara and got insulted in return.

"It's your client," said Hashirama, pulling the socle out of scroll he'd sealed it in. It appeared with a tiny puff of smoke on the palm of his hand. "I found this in his house."

Madara, without even reacting to the part where Hashirama went snooping in his client's house, took the socle from him. He turned it around, wrinkling his nose—an expression that left Hashirama feeling punched in the chest—and formed his hand in a seal. Madara flinched back from the socle so badly he almost dropped it.

"What is it?" he asked, horrified. "It feels—"

"Evil," Hashirama finished for him.

Madara turned it around a few more times, and then returned it to Hashirama. He didn't relax until it was sealed back in the scroll.

"I'll ask Yurimoto," he said. "Most of those things were supposed to be found in the northern mountains. Wipe that look off your face—I know things."

Hashirama hadn't had any kind of look on his face, other than impressed. Anyway, he wasn't going to leave all the research to Madara. Hashirama had friends everything—one of them was bound to know something about the socle's origins. Power that dark was never left sitting for long.

He had so much he wanted to talk about, but Madara brought it to a close all too quickly.

"I can't be gone for long," he said. "My clanmate will assume something is wrong. Goodbye, Hashirama."

Dismay struck Hashirama. That hadn't been nearly enough time.

He was tempted to follow him anyway, as Madara hadn't really told him to leave, despite his actions—but, no, now that he thought about it, he'd told Hashirama to "go away" earlier. Sort of. And he looked so annoyed—it was as though Madara really hadn't missed him at all. The ground could swallow him up, and it wouldn't be as crushing as his disappointment.

Madara hesitated, grimacing at him. "Wipe that look off your face, why are you so—ugh!" He broke off with a disgusted sound, but still didn't leave right away. He seemed to wage a great inner battle, before bursting out with, "Fine!"

"What?" asked Hashirama, wondering if he'd somehow missed a monologue. He tended to tune out people who talked for too long.

"Where?" said Madara sharply, looking stubbornly at the town instead of Hashirama, eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not making any promises. I still think it's stupid and dangerous, but I will think about it—so, where?"

Hashirama's breath caught. "Anywhere that's easy for you."

"I'm asking you," said Madara. "You had a plan, didn't you?"

The thing was, Hashirama was certain he'd had a plan, but now that he was put on the spot, his mind seemed to have gone on vacation. Luckily, geography was one of those things he could study for hours for leisure, and he could pick out a spot that wasn't too near any threatening clans quickly.

Madara had heard of the place, but reminded him again not to get his hopes up. Hashirama, already forming scenarios in his head, knew it was a lost cause. They both knew.


End file.
